


To Dream or Not to Dream

by SigmaCreations



Category: Spooks | MI-5
Genre: Christmas, Comfort, F/M, Grief, Hope, Love, choir
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-09-07 10:32:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 23,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16852393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SigmaCreations/pseuds/SigmaCreations
Summary: Set after 8.03, this is a Christmas story that is not to be taken too seriously. Kudos owns what's theirs and the rest is my own work. Positive, constructive reviews are always welcome and much appreciated. Cheers, S.C.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: RL seems to have taken over at the mo (though I'm sure it doesn't help that my inspiration and ability to string coherent sentences together takes a nosedive, these days, after every fic I complete). I was intending to have more written before beginning to publish this, but I have a feeling I just need to wing it this time as it's set at Christmas and it's approaching fast. Updates will be regular to begin with and short, but I make no promises that I'll manage to keep this up after the first few chapters. I'm hoping your lovely reviews will inspire my muse! Hope you enjoy. Cheers, S.C.

_Tuesday,_ _1_ _st_ _December 2009_

 

Tom had loved running; Danny had loved clubbing and films, Colin his computer games and the Hitchhickers' Guide to the Galaxy, and Malcolm collecting bugs, reading, and church on a Sunday. Zaf – _Poor Zaf –_ Zaf had loved... sleep and coffee and flirting, and Adam, he’d loved Wes and Fiona. Lucas... she’s not sure what Lucas loves yet; she hasn’t known him long enough and he’s a hard man to read. Ros loves work and – _w_ _ho knows what else Ros loves?_ _Working out? Kicking arse? Winning?_ _Y_ _es. Undoubtedly winning..._ Fiona had loved Adam and Wes and the thrill of deception and going undercover. Zoe had loved being in love and doing her best and Will North. Sam had loved sweets and friendship and fun and mischief and romance and so many things. Jo – _Dear Jo –_ she misses her so much. Jo had loved so many things too. Jo used to love everything. She used to love life itself, but lately she’d changed, she’d been so different. The Jo she’d come back to had been so damaged it had been heartbreaking. _That_ Jo had loved her colleagues and doing her best to honour them by making sure their sacrifices hadn’t been in vain. She’d loved doing the right thing and protecting the innocent.

Ruth had only managed to have three conversations with her since her return before she too had joined the list of names engraved upon the glass wall of Thames House. She treasures the memory of those conversations now, remembering particularly her words the last time she’d popped round for tea, two days before Ruth had returned to the Grid. She’d mentioned the Redbacks then, and how she’d lost her way for a while after what had happened – she hadn’t shared the specifics, but Ruth had been able to imagine all that in uncomfortable detail regardless – until Adam had been killed and then she’d realised something. “It’s our duty, Ruth,” she’d said quietly, yet with conviction, leaning in, her eyes bright and intense as if she were imparting a hugely important secret, “to pay our respects by giving more of ourselves, doing more, fighting harder, living our life more fully because they’re no longer here to live theirs. It’s not just about carrying on the good fight. It’s about making their sacrifices worthwhile by enjoying _our_ life as much as possible, by having fun and doing all the things we’ve always wanted to do but didn’t dare. That way, the bad guys never win. We fight this war with joy and laughter and love and friendship as well as by working our arses off every day at work. We beat them in every way that counts.”

In the weeks that had followed Jo’s loss, Ruth had thought about her words a lot and had eventually decided to try to live by them in memory of her friend and because she was getting increasingly worried about herself and the numbness she' s been feeling since losing George and Nico, a numbness that, instead of receding with time, had started to spread deeper, gaining strength and almost suffocating her at times. So she’d gone out flat hunting and had found the perfect place – a one bedroom, furnished flat in an old building that had been converted into flats, whose rent had been a little too steep for her budget due to its location in an  up-scale part of London, but on which she’d decided to spend a little of the compensation money Harry had managed to secure for her upon her return, following all that she’d been through because of Cotterdam and what had happened with George and Nico. She’d intended to never touch that money, but Jo's philosophy –  _her_ new philosophy – had  _demanded_ it be used, so she’d boxed up her  few  things and moved in, joined a local choir, bought herself an  electronic piano, arranged to have some lessons and filled the rest of the free space in her flat with bookshelves ready to receive all the books she intends to buy. 

Now she spends every Saturday after work scouring second hand bookshops, every Tuesday at Christ Church practising with the choir and every Sunday singing with them during the service, and on Thursdays she has her piano lessons. She still has to work hard at keeping her mood from taking a down turn, but it’s getting much easier to keep up her spirits now, in spite of the nature of her work and in spite of all the losses. At times, however, she still finds it hard to breathe as she remembers them all and the grief threatens to overwhelm her completely.

Today is a good day, however, and she has choir practice tonight, assuming nothing terrible happens to keep her on the Grid late. This is her favourite time of year for singing and one she’d missed so much while she’d been away. There’s something so different about the way Christmas is celebrated in Britain compared to everywhere else in the world and she'd missed singing carols, especially the less commercial ones that only get sung here – at home. They'd began practising carols last week, and she’s looking forward to tonight immensely.


	2. Chapter 2

_Tuesday,_ _1_ _st_ _December 2009_

 

As she enters the atrium, doing battle with her brolly and then her sodden anorak, the energy and joy of the conversation in the church catches her attention – the members of her choir aren’t normally this animated.

“Look who it is!” someone calls and laughs loudly.

“It’s Al. Hey everyone, it’s Al!”

“Al, good of you to join us.” “Finally!” “Must be Christmas. Al’s here,” several voices greet the newcomer before it becomes impossible to distinguish any of them from the babble of conversation that's erupted. She wonders who Al is and can’t help looking for him as she slips into the church.

Most of the members of her choir are clustered around a man of average height, with quite broad shoulders who has his back towards her and appears to be thriving on all the attention, but as she approaches unseen, she finds her steps slowing, a feeling of apprehension welling up as she realises that there’s something familiar about him, his build and the way he holds himself. Before she can puzzle it out, however, Derek spots her – one of the choir’s tenors and her biggest fan here. In truth, Derek’s been trying to chat her up since practically her first day.

“Grace,” he smiles. “Glad you made it. Dreadful weather, isn't it? How are you?”

“Hi, Derek. I'm fine,” she replies, her eyes meeting his for a moment before sliding back to the mystery man behind him, who’s now pulling off his woolly hat and smoothing down his hair.

The sight of the back of his head has her gasping in recognition.  _It can’t be. Surely that’s not-_

“Hey, Al,” someone else says, “You don’t know Grace, do you?” and, as he turns to face her, her worst fears are confirmed.

_Harry! Harry here? Why? How? Did he follow me?_ _But no. T_ _hey all already know him._ Her thoughts and emotions are a jumble of confusion as she watches his eyes widen almost imperceptibly in surprise before he smiles warmly and moves towards her.

“Do you know each other?” Derek asks, snapping her out of her stupor and forcing her to get her expression under control, knowing that the shocked disbelief she’s feeling must be clearly visible on her face.

“I don’t think so,” Harry replies smoothly, moving closer and extending his hand towards her. She takes it instinctively, the warmth of his skin making hers tingle. “I’d have remembered,” he adds in a low rumble, making her blush and drop her gaze.

“Really, Al,” Simon, another of the choir members, laughs. “Don’t mind him, Grace. He’s a terrible flirt even if he _is_ married with a gaggle of children at home. He’s got all the ladies here eating out of the palm of his hand.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you so much for your encouragement. I'm so glad you're enjoying the premise. Another short one today. Hope you continue to enjoy and, yes, I did change the title of this fic. Cheers, S.C.

_Tuesday,_ _1_ _st_ _December 2009_

 

She knows that the warm, easy-going, laughing, flirtatious man she met at choir tonight isn’t real, that the persona of Al is just a legend created and adopted by Harry, and yet, she can’t seem to get him out of her mind, can’t stop counting down the hours until she sees him again, can’t help wanting to spend more time in his company, chatting, laughing, listening to him sing. He’s got a beautiful, tenor voice, she’s discovered and can sing superbly.  _How could I not know that? How can there be so many things about Harry that I still don’t know?_

She’d thought she knew him rather well – his character, his strengths, his limitations and weaknesses – but tonight has convinced her that perhaps she doesn't. Not really. Not as well as she'd thought. And is it any wonder really? They work together closely to be sure, have worked together closely for years, but other than their one, promising date, a lifetime ago now, when else has she seen him away from the office? When else has she given him the opportunity to open up more, to reach a level of intimacy where she can truly say she knows Harry Pearce?

How much of his persona had been an act tonight and how much of it is real? This can’t be an op. _He must be doing it because, like me, he likes to sing... at Christmas._ _Why_ , she wonders. What is it about this time of year that makes him do it? Derek had told her that he sings with them every year, that he’d joined four years ago and only comes out of the woodwork to sing when their Christmas program starts.  _Why?_

She’d wanted to talk to Harry tonight, but Grace – her alter ego at choir – is a shy, reserved woman, who very much keeps herself to herself. It had been easier to create such a legend. She’d not felt like acting all happy and chipper when she’d decided to rejoin a choir, so this had seemed the safest way to keep the others from asking too many questions. Now she wishes that she'd made Grace more fun loving and open, like Al, though she has to concede that that might have been a rather dangerous thing for her under the present circumstances. She still has some feelings for Harry – she knows that much – but she’s not ready to probe those feelings too deeply just yet. It’s still too soon after George.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Apologies for the delay in posting this chapter. I've been away for a few days. I plan on posting updates every couple of days now, at least while the chapters remain short. Thanks again for reading and your encouraging words. They make my day. Cheers, S.C.

_Tuesday, 8 th December 2009_

 

Work this week has been... different. Harry hasn’t mentioned meeting her at choir; in fact their conversations have been strictly about work for some time now – ever since Jo’s death, in fact, and the moment she'd failed to give him hope when he'd mentioned that there will always be something else between them. In spite of that, however, he’d seemed more present, this week, his gaze warmer and his mood more up-beat, yet at the same time, somewhat wary and unsure of himself around her. For her part, no matter how hard she tries, she can’t stop thinking about him, especially not now, not after tonight.

She’d found it hard to keep her eyes off him, his open laughter, teasing and flirting with everyone, the mischief in his eyes, the ready smile that was never far from his lips, capturing her attention even more so than last week and drawing her in, so that even when she’d forced herself to look away, every one of her other senses had still been trained on him. He’d been gentle with her and considerate, gradually drawing her out of her shell despite her resolution that Grace would remain unaffected by him. And as a result, she’d had more fun tonight than she has done in a very long time and she’s not in the least surprised now that virtually all the women there are half in love with him at least – some of the men too, she wouldn't wonder. Derek and a couple of others had seemed a little grumpy and jealous of all the attention Al received, but the rest of the men seemed just as pleased as the women to have him in their midst. The whole atmosphere at choir has changed and their performance has improved because of it.

She still can’t get over how much difference he’s made and how different he is at choir compared to work. Never before has she seen him this open, and though logic tells her it's all an act, she can’t help wondering what the true Harry is really like in his personal life and feeling a steadily growing desire to find out.


	5. Chapter 5

_Sunday, 13 th December 2009_

 

Today is the first time Harry joins them for a performance and she's sure she can feel his eyes on the back of her head throughout the service; she's sure her own would be glued to him too if she'd been standing behind him.

Following the service and after all the handshakes, compliments, and conversations are complete and most of the choir has gone, he moves close to her side again, saying, “Can I offer you a lift anywhere, Grace?”

“Thank you, Al.” She smiles, her heart tripping from a combination of the happy smile he gives her, his proximity, and her own nerves. It's frustrating and disconcerting how easily this man is able to get under her skin and sway her, how the warm glint in his hazel eyes sets her heart to racing, how a slight pursing of his lips can trigger an overwhelming desire to kiss him, and how all this has not diminished one jot with time and distance. Much to her chagrin, guilt, and dismay – and as reluctant as she's been to admit it to herself – over the last few days, she's discovered that he has as much power over her now, as ever.

“Shall we go, Grace?” Derek stumbles into their conversation. “The rain's let up a bit.” She usually walks home with him, Jim and Diana after church.

“Al's just offered me a lift, Derek. I'm sorry.” She gives him an apologetic look. She tries not to encourage him, but she doesn't want to be rude either. She's not developed any friendships here, has kept herself aloof and distant, the effort of living a double life too much for her at present, so Derek with his mild manners and attentive solicitousness has made it easy to fit in without any effort on her part and whilst still keeping herself walled off from everyone.

“Oh.” He looks crestfallen.

“I could give you a lift too, Mate,” Harry offers, making her heart sink for, though she knows she's on dangerous ground, a part of her had hoped for some alone time with Harry. She tells herself it's to talk about their situation at choir and work out how they proceed from here, formulate a plan, see if they can both keep coming to the same place or if she needs to find another choir. She's torn between the pleasure of Al's positive energy and how it is affecting _Grace_ , and the turmoil of her own feelings, _Ruth's_ feelings, of the pain and guilt surrounding George and the stirring of long set aside desires for Harry.

But of course he'd offer Derek a lift. He's Al – the most generous and good-natured person at choir.

“Thanks.”

“Don't mention it. I'll just go get the car and bring it round the front then.” And with that and a warm smile he's gone, leaving her to wait with Derek and try to show some interest in his conversation. _Poor man_. He really doesn't have a clue. She feels rather sorry for him.

It doesn't take long for Harry to pull up in front of the church, but before they can make it to the car, he's already got out and is walking towards them, meeting them halfway with a smile and his large, black umbrella open against the elements.

“Beastly weather,” he says cheerfully as he guides her towards the passenger seat of his car with a gentle hand on her lower back, leaving Derek to fend for himself and get in the back seat.

“Thank you,” she smiles up at him, feeling touched and treasured by his solicitousness.

He smiles, closing her door and walking round the car to slip into the driver's seat, as she frowns at the water droplets racing each other down the wind-shield, annoyed by the treacherous stirring of her heart and giving it a good telling to.

“So, where to?” He looks at her but it's Derek who answers.

“Grace's place is closest. I live on the crescent.”

“Right,” Harry nods, pursing his lips, she thinks in disappointment. He rallies quickly, however, and begins his usual easy conversation, drawing her out and making her laugh in spite of all the resolutions she's just made to keep her distance. The traffic is heavier because of the weather, so it takes them a good quarter of an hour to get home – plenty of time for Al's charm to undermine all her attempts to remain aloof, especially when he starts talking about books and discussing the classics. Derek tries to keep up initially and dominate the conversation, but becomes more and more quiet as they get closer to her home, clearly brooding.

Once they arrive, Harry gets out of the car again to walk her to her door, leaving Derek in the back, watching them. She does turn to smile at him and bid him goodbye while Harry's walking round the car, and she thinks he looks a little happier as she gets out.

_Poor sod. It's not his fault he's hopeless._

“Here we are, Grace,” Harry smiles, eyes twinkling at her in mischief when they step under the overhang in front of the entrance.

“Thank you, _Al._ ” She emphasises his name, earning her another twinkle and twitch of his lips.

“My pleasure. See you on Tuesday.”

“If not before,” she counters, unable to resist the temptation.

“Indeed.” He takes her hand in his then and brings it to his lips, his eyes never leaving hers, and she's sure he can feel her pulse racing. “Have a good Sunday, Ruth,” he murmurs softly, slipping out of character for the first time, then turns abruptly away, leaving her staring after him, her heart aching with longing, her mind overwhelmed by guilt.


	6. Chapter 6

_Tuesday, 15 th December 2009_

 

On Tuesday, they manage a walk home after choir. Derek has brought his car, perhaps in the hope of giving her a lift, but she politely declines, saying she'd rather walk as Al has already offered to see her to her door. She smiles at him apologetically, saying, “It's such a lovely December evening.”

Harry is all charm and good humour as they walk with Jim and Diana initially until they separate by the post office on the corner of Bridge Street and continue along alone. For a second, she experiences a overwhelming mixture of worry, excitement, and fear, but it passes soon enough when, without missing a beat, he keeps up the pleasant conversation until they reach her door.

“Coffee?” she asks softly before she can lose her nerve. She's spent a lot of time thinking about it, these last few days, and she's decided that they can't continue ignoring their double lives and that they really should talk about choir and their legends and work and how they should navigate all this.

“Thank you,” he replies, smiling broadly.

She opens the door and steps aside to let him in, and that's when she thinks she spies Derek's car drive past. She frowns, looking up at Harry to see if he's noticed, but he doesn't give any indication that he has, so she quickly dismisses the notion. She probably just imagined it. Still. It makes her feel a little uneasy. Her interactions with Derek have started to acquire an edge since Harry joined the choir that wasn't there before and she doesn't like it.

“Tea? Coffee? Whiskey?” she asks, having hung up her coat and turned to watch him do the same.

“Whiskey sounds wonderful if you have it.” He smiles in the easy way Al has and she can't help wondering if he's planning to keep up the pretence all evening despite the fact that they're alone now.

“I do and I think you might even approve of the label.”

She turns towards the kitchen and feels him follow her and stop somewhere behind her as she walks to the sink, washes her hands, and reaches into one cupboard for the glasses and another for the whiskey bottle.

“Talisker,” he says in surprise. “Not my usual, but a fine choice. Thank you.”

“I like trying different ones,” she confesses, picking up the glasses and indicating the door. “Shall we go through to the sitting room?”

He nods and steps aside, allowing her to lead the way through to the other room, where she sets down the glasses and bottle on the small coffee table and turns on the lamp by the settee.

“Please take a seat,” she prompts when she turns around and finds him still standing.

He moves closer and sits in the armchair, only to frown and get up again, reach behind him and pull out a book that's slipped between the cushions. “Your usual seat?” he asks with a fond smile.

“Yes,” she confesses, “but please take it. I'm fine on the sofa.”

So he sits down and reaches forward, placing the tome on the table and reaching for the bottle, pouring them each a decent measure of whiskey.

“Thanks,” she says, leaning forward to take her glass as he corks the bottle, bringing it to her lips, and taking a small sip of the liquid.

He simply smiles and takes a sip of his own drink, leaning back in his chair, crossing his legs and giving her a long speculative look. “Shakespeare's Sonnets,” he says eventually. “Bit of light reading?”

She smiles at the teasing tone of his voice. “Indeed. It was either that or Ovid.”

He chuckles and takes another sip of his drink, her eyes following the progress of his glass to his lips, distracted by the way he purses them together when he swallows – such gorgeous, sensual lips. She tries to recall what they taste like, what they felt like against her own when she'd kissed him on that cold morning by the Thames, but she can't quite recapture the feeling; it's been too long and it had been George's lips that had become familiar in the meantime.

“I wouldn't have pegged you for a whiskey fan,” he murmurs as he lowers his glass, the sudden heat in his eyes suggesting he's noticed her scrutiny.

She drops her gaze quickly and takes a fortifying sip before she smiles into her glass, remembering her first few attempts to enjoy the fiery liquid whilst away, her determination to learn to like it – for him, for the memories and the taste of it on his lips, and her need to hold onto some part of him – a splash of heaven from home.

“It helped on the cold nights abroad,” she confesses softly.

His gaze is still warm, but tender too now, when she looks up. “It helps with cold nights at home too, I assure you,” he replies, equally softly, voice a little husky with emotion.

He's trying to tell her that he'd missed her too, but an image of George flashes through her mind and with it the guilt, so she lowers her gaze again and says firmly, “Once I got to Cyprus, however, it was really too hot for whiskey.” She doesn't dare lift her gaze and cannot see the effect her words have on him. She hopes she hasn't hurt him, and yet, at the same time, she rather hopes that she has. George had been a good man and doesn't deserve such disloyalty from her. She'd mourned Harry far longer than four months and they'd barely even been dating! He shouldn't be tempting her like this and she shouldn't be so close to succumbing to that temptation.

“A kind soul, beautiful mind, angelic voice – tell me, Grace, how is it that you're still single?”

She draws in a sharp breath, eyes darting up to his, anger flaring in her, but his gaze is steady and direct and he does not shy away from her.

“Ah,” he says instead. “I've hit a nerve. Forgive me. I don't wish to pry.”

She sees what he's doing. He's staying in character and attempting to keep her there too, hoping perhaps that they can make some progress where they haven't managed before as Harry and Ruth, boss and employee. In character, they are equals and he is married and unthreatening, not to mention open and rather charming. It's confusing, yet liberating too, and annoyingly tempting and exciting.

“Not everyone wants to get married,” she fires back, hating that she sounds defensive.

“True, but I see deep sorrow in your eyes, Grace, and I suspect that your story is one of lost love, not an indifference to marriage.”

He's trying to help her, she realises with a grudging return of the warmth she feels for him. He's trying to give her an opportunity to talk about what happened.

Dare she take it?

She looks up at him to find his gaze has softened, beseeching her almost to trust in him as she did before, to open up to him as she never has. He'd talked to her of Grand Tours and practically admitted that he'd dreamt that she would be the one to accompany him, but she had never opened up enough to share her own dreams of travel to exotic places – far more exotic than the capitals of Europe. Yet here he is, presenting her with a perfect opportunity to unburden herself and, at the same time, giving himself the plausibility of denial. If she talks about George in character as Grace, not only will it make it marginally easier, but it will also allow them both to claim it was merely a backstory for her legend – Harry will not have to report any of it as her boss, and if his hand is ever forced, she can deny it. _Clever man!_

“It is a recent loss if I'm not mistaken,” he prompts gently. “It must have been someone special.”

“He was,” she whispers softly, staring into her drink as a picture of George laughing fills her mind and heart. “He was a good man. He was lovely.” She feels tears gather in her eyes, remembering him. “It's all my fault. He was killed because of me.”

He doesn't reply to this statement, perhaps knowing the futility of arguing with her, perhaps sensing that he shouldn't interrupt the flow of her words, her thoughts, her grief.

“He had a son – a beautiful, little boy.” She continues, surprised to find how much she wants to unburden herself, how much she _needs_ to talk about it. “I hadn't thought I could fall in love again. After leaving here, it rather felt like my life was over. But it's beautiful in Cyprus. It's warm and sunny, the cicadas serenade you in the summer, the sea... I felt at peace there. Like I could stop running. And he was charming, kind, he made me laugh. And Nico, he was a wonderful child. We'd not been together that long – just a few months. I'd only just moved in with them.” The tears gathering in her eyes are sliding down her cheeks faster than she can wipe them away. She's not cried for them since the day Nico left and it's impossible to stem the flow of her grief now though she tries.

She feels his hand grasp her glass gently and pull it out of her grasp, replacing it with a soft, white cloth – his handkerchief – so she does the obvious thing and brings it to her eyes, wiping away tears as fresh ones form and slide down her cheeks, their flow increasing, her shoulders beginning to shake with suppressed sobs. “Sorry,” she whispers, trying and failing to control her reaction to speaking about George and Nico, for the first time, and the life she left behind in Cyprus. It had truly been a beautiful life – elegant and simple and joyful. What had started off as a legend in her mind, had turned into a full, fulfilling life, in its own way, despite the lies she'd told by necessity, despite the fact that poor George had never really known her.

“He was,” she murmurs brokenly between her sobs, “so... _angry_ with me, when he found out. ' _Truth is an end in itself. It requires no other justification_ _,'_ he told me. And I never... we never got the chance to talk before...” but she can no longer continue speaking as whatever tenuous grip she still has on her emotions snaps and she breaks down completely.

It's only vaguely that she registers him sit down beside her, but when he gently guides her into his arms, she doesn't resist. If anything, she clings to his warmth and the solid feel of him against her, the anchor she so desperately needs in the storm of her raging emotions.

“That's it, Ruth,” he murmurs, his voice low and warm. “Good girl. Let it all out. I'm here. I've got you. Let go. Just let go.”

And she does, pouring out her grief while he holds her, settling into the cushions behind him and gathering her close, his hands rubbing her back, murmuring words of encouragement and reassurance until, finally, her tears slow, her sobs subside, and she's left an emotional wreck in his arms.

She doesn't move for the longest time, unable to let go of the solid feel of him, his warmth, the gentle touch of his hands, the comfort of being held again after so long without someone's arms around her. But eventually, she can reasonably delay no more and she has to pull out of his arms, apologising. “Sorry. I didn't mean to do that.”

“It's alright,” he replies, watching her with tender eyes. “It's one of my best features, you know – broad shoulders to cry on.”

She tries for a smile, appreciating his attempt to put her at ease, but drops her gaze almost immediately, feeling acutely embarrassed. She feels lighter after sharing her grief and having a good cry about it, but she's also painfully aware of whom she's shared it with, of their convoluted history, of Harry's regard for her, of the complicated dynamics of their relationship in the past, of the role Harry played in her loss of George, of the torch he continues to carry for her, of the fact that he's still her boss, of her own mixed feelings towards him.

“Sweet tea,” he says, perhaps sensing her discomfort. “That's what you need.” And as she watches him get up and cross the room towards the kitchen, she can't help wondering if he realises that he'd said those exact words to her just before Cotterdam, can't help the way the memories come flooding back, the pain of their separation, the regret of never having given them a chance before it was too late and she was ripped from his side by fate and her own deep love for him. It had been so simple with George. Why has it always been so complicated with Harry?


	7. Chapter 7

_Tuesday, 15 th December 2009_

 

They're sitting at the kitchen table now to drink their tea. She'd felt the need to wash her face and get her make up sorted, choosing to just remove what remained of it and face him without any. She'd figured, he's already seen her at some of her worst moments; her tear stained, bare face isn't going to faze him. And it hadn't. He'd simply smiled at her and handed her a mug of tea with just the right amount of milk and sugar in it. It pays to be loved by a spy in certain things, she'd thought ruefully as she'd accepted it with a quiet, “Thank you.” He'd already known exactly how she takes her tea, these days, mere minutes after she'd taken her place by his side again on the Grid. It had taken George weeks to remember.

“Did you sing, in Cyprus?” he asks presently.

She frowns at the conversation shift. “No,” she admits. “I suppose there was probably a choir somewhere, but I didn't really think to join it. I'd figured out by then that it was easier to find new things to do, rather than be reminded...” she tails off, looking down at her tea.

“Tell me about your travels, Ruth,” he whispers softly and, when she looks up, she sees genuine interest in his eyes even if they are a little uncertain. “If it's not too much to ask, that is. I'd like to know where you went, what you saw. I used to imagine...” But here he tails off and turns back to his drink, recognising that with those few words he has revealed how often he thought of her. From the moment she'd seen him again, she'd realised that he still harbours feelings for her, but she'd assumed he'd have kept thoughts of her to a minimum, tucked away in a box in a corner of his mind – a basic spying technique that she knows he employs all the time to survive in this world they inhabit. But it turns out that he hadn't. He'd kept the memory of her very much alive and thought of her often, imagining her travels, perhaps even thinking of it as her own Grand Tour without him. It saddens her to realise that. Fate has been so very cruel to them both.

So she tells him of the places she saw, the people she met, and it feels good to be talking of them, sharing her story with another human being, transforming it in her mind, from the ordeal it had been, into an adventure. He's a good listener, interested and engaged, asking pertinent questions, comparing notes when she mentions places he's been to as well, and even going so far as to encourage her to tell him about George and how she'd met him.

“I'm sorry, Ruth,” he says when she finally falls silent. “I'm sorry I couldn't protect him for you.”

She sighs, feeling the pain begin to build in her again and hating it. She's done enough crying for one night. She just wants it to end on a good note. Surely that's not too much to ask, is it? “It wasn't your fault, Harry. I shouldn't have brought them here. I knew they were after me. I should never have brought them to London.”

He shakes his head. “You did the right things, Ruth,” he says earnestly. “We should have been able to protect you. All of you. It's all my fault. If I hadn't-”

“Stop. I don't want to talk about it any more. It's not your fault. If they got _you_ , with all your security, all your experience-”

“I gave myself up.”

“You _what_?!” This is the first she's ever heard of this part of the story. “Why would you do that?”

“To show them Moscow was playing all of us. To get them to take the threat of a nuclear device in London seriously and _help_ us to find and disable it. There was no other way.”

“And they double-crossed you.”

“Yes.”

She has no words to express her feelings in this moment – her pride in him, her outrage at the Russians, her fear, her admiration, her love, above all, her love for the remarkable man he is. She had almost forgotten, while she was away and while she's been grieving for George, how fierce her admiration and love for him is. She doesn't think she ever stopped loving him. She'd just tucked that love away in a box – he'd called her a born spook, hadn't he? – but the box is cracking wide open tonight – has been slowly creaking open for several nights now, if she's honest, since Al turned up at her choir – and she's beginning to see the truth of her heart. She could have been happy with George, yes, but she knows now that she'd have always regretted Harry.

“Bloody Russians,” she says in the end, delighting in his warm chuckle.

“Indeed.”

For a moment, they just stare at each other in silence, but then Harry clears his throat and looks down at his drink, realising his mug is empty. “Well,” he says, “it's getting late. I'd better be getting home to the wife and children.” Her heart constricts and skips a beat before her mind's caught up with reality as his twinkling eyes meet hers and he smiles.

“Right,” she agrees. “Last thing you need is a cross wife, furious that you've spent the evening comforting a friend instead of helping her with dinner and tucking in the children.”

His smile broadens. “She'll understand, I'm sure. That's the good thing about fictional people.”

That makes her laugh. “They agree with everything you say too,” she suggests as they walk together to her front door.

“Yes. They're your biggest fan and nothing you do ever upsets them.”

She smiles as he pulls his coat on and turns to face her. Then before she can stop herself, she says, “Shame about the cuddles though.”

“Cuddles?”

“They're the thing I miss the most,” she confesses softly.

His gaze softens and he smiles. “I confess, I'd quite forgotten how good they feel,” he replies. “It's been years since last I had such a good one.”

She hesitates but for a moment before stepping forward and into his waiting arms. “Thank you,” she murmurs into his chest, overcome by gratitude and love.

“My pleasure, Ruth,” he replies, voice low and warm. “Really.”

She sighs. “You're a lovely man, Harry.”

He chuckles self-consciously as she pulls out of his arms. “Not a sentiment most would agree with, Ruth.”

“That's only because they don't appreciate how selfless you are. I honestly don't know how you manage it. In your shoes, I can't imagine being able to do this. I'd have been insanely jealous and angry.” Her eyes widen in shock, unable to believe she's said that out loud, inwardly cringing and wishing the floor would open up and swallow her whole. “God, I'm sorry, Harry. That was not...”

He smiles sadly, his hand lifting to stroke along her jaw with the back of a finger, her voice tailing away at the infinite love and sorrow in his gaze.

“You were a dream, Ruth. You're far too good, too young and beautiful for the likes of me. I've always known that.” His eyes dart all over her face, and though she wants to object, to tell him that it's not true, that he's brave and honourable and sexy and wonderful, her voice has deserted her and she can barely breathe; all she can do is watch and listen. “I never intended to act on my feelings, you know, but after Collingwood and Myers and Juliet in a wheelchair telling me not to let the opportunity pass me by...” He sighs. “I confess, my self-control failed me and I dared to hope that _maybe_...” He drops his gaze for a moment, lifting his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, then letting it drop back down to his side. 

“When you left, you asked me to let you go.” He pauses, giving her a small shrug of his shoulders and a rueful smile before he confesses, “I couldn't. Like it or not, you're still my dream, Ruth – you and I and the Grand Tour. It's a good dream. It keeps me going. I expect it'll never come true – mostly it's my nightmares that do that – but it's a good one, as far as dreams go, and I'm holding onto it. We all need something to hold onto.”

Her eyes have filled with tears. “Oh Harry. I don't-”

“It's alright, Ruth,” he interrupts, reaching for her hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Really. I didn't tell you this to make you feel bad. I wanted you to know that I don't have unrealistic expectations. It's okay that you've moved on. I expected nothing less. It was the right thing to do, as it is right that you grieve for him, for them now. I never want you to feel guilty on my account. I'm fine. Really. Seeing you every day, having your help and support on the Grid again is more than enough for me.”

She can tell that he means it. This beautiful, noble, selfless man means every word he's just uttered. She's no idea how he manages to maintain such a positive attitude when it comes to her. He's often angry on the Grid, carries as much guilt as she does when it comes to their losses, gets annoyed and frustrated as much as the next person, even with _her_ when they're at work, but away from that place, when they're alone, he seems to have the patience, the love, the heart of an angel.

She doesn't know what to say, so she lets her heart speak for her. She cups his cheeks with gentle hands and presses a soft kiss against his lips, and though she intends it to be over quickly, somehow she finds herself falling into him, his arms wrapping round her, cradling her against his chest as he dips his head down to kiss her with all the love and longing buried in his soul.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A big thank you to those of you who continue to read and especially to those who take the time to review and give kudos. With the holidays upon us, I've not had a chance to write much, so there will probably be a bit of a delay before the next update. Sorry. I'd like to also take this opportunity to wish you all a very happy 2019. Cheers, S.C.

_Wednesday, 16 th December 2009_

 

“Ruth?”

“Yup!” She turns to face him, fighting to keep her cheeks from colouring to be caught out daydreaming about him and that blissful kiss last night. It had been so gentle, warm, and so full of hope, of understanding, and of love, and then he'd held her for long moments in silence, both of them absorbing the magic of the moment before he'd pressed his lips against her forehead, whispered goodnight, and slipped out of her flat into the cold, December night.

She'd slept like a baby after that and has spent most of the morning reliving the moment, wondering, hoping, dreaming of more, then crossly dashing away her own hopes as the guilt resurfaces and she remembers George and Nico and how very much she doesn't deserve this when one of them is buried in the cold earth and the other is now an orphan.

“I have a meeting at Whitehall in an hour, but there's something I need to run by you. Walk with me?”

He's wearing his coat, his expression serious and carefully masked. He rarely lets his guard down on the Grid these days. In fact, she suspects even Ros can't really tell what's going on between them now, which suits her just fine. It's clear that he trusts her, but beyond that, any indication of more personal feelings could easily be feelings of guilt rather than love and she's sure Ros doesn't know what to make of it. Not that she probably spends much time thinking about it. After what happened with Jo, she has plenty of her own daemons to wrestle without worrying about theirs.

She hesitates, eyeing the kettle that's just coming to a boil. “We'll get a coffee on the way,” he adds, as perceptive as ever.

So she nods and moves towards him. “I'll just get my coat then.”

They amble along the embankment, stopping at a cart for a cup of coffee and continuing on, the winter chill in the air making certain that they're one of the few people braving the icy weather. At least it's not raining, she thinks somewhat ruefully as she blows across the top of her drink, wishing it would cool a bit faster so she can take more than a small sip of the hot liquid to chase away the cold. At least her hands are warm now, encased as they are in her gloves and wrapped around the hot, paper cup.

“So,” she says eventually, steeling herself for his response, “what did you need to talk to me about?”

He looks down at her, then turns and comes to a stop leaning against the wall on their right, overlooking the Thames. He waits while she settles herself beside him, turning his body to shield her from the wind and making her smile inwardly at his solicitousness. Does he realise he's doing it, she wonders, or is it a habit he does without thinking – setting his own needs aside, always protecting, taking care of others.

“How well do you know Derek Marshall?” he asks, surprising her. She'd thought he needed to talk to her about work, desperately hoped it wasn't about their kiss and what it means for them, but she hadn't expected this.

She frowns. “Hardly at all. I mean, I'm sure he's told me stuff about himself, but, to be frank, I don't really pay much attention. Why?”

He purses his lips and looks out across the water, then takes a sip of his drink. “He was watching us last night.”

“How d'you mean?” Suddenly, her heart is racing.

“I noted the number plate of his car. He drove past when you asked me in and was parked further down the street when I left.”

“Christ,” she sighs. This is all she needs.

“I confronted him.”

“What?!”

“I clocked him and walked past his car, feigning surprise to see him there.”

“What did he do?” She can't help being intrigued.

Harry purses his lips again. “He hedged and made up some excuse about making sure I didn't take advantage of you. He was embarrassed. I set him straight on a few things.”

“Set him straight how?” She frowns, suddenly worried.

“Gently,” he says, his eyes twinkling at her.

“Right.”

“I've asked Section X to look into him.”

“Harry!” she objects, but before she can say anything more, he cuts her off.

“I'm not having him stalking you, Ruth. If he's a threat, we need to know about it. Don't forget, he knows where you live.”

She sighs, hating that he's right. “I don't know what his problem is. It's not like I encourage him or anything. Why would he even be interested?” She takes a sip of her drink, staring out across the water for a few moments, contemplating the baffling nature of men, before returning her eyes to him.

He's smiling softly at her.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, seriously. Why are you smiling?”

He purses his lips. “You're not joking?”

“Joking? About what?”

“You really have no idea why?”

“No!” she exclaims somewhat exasperated. “I've taken pains to make sure Grace is boring and uninteresting. I hardly say anything at all to anyone and they know I'm recently bereaved, so no, I've no idea why he'd be interested.” She looks at him mutinously, daring him to contradict her, but he just continues to smile most infuriatingly.

“That may all be very true, Ruth,” he murmurs, “but you forget one important fact.”

“Oh? What's that?”

“That it's a choir and that you sing in it.”

She frowns. “What's that got to do with anything?”

“Everything,” he replies.

She glares at him and he chuckles.

“Derek Marshall sees a beautiful, intelligent woman who has suffered great loss in her life,” he explains. “Most of the time, she is reserved and shrouded in grief, but when she sings, she transforms into an angel. Her eyes light up, her cheeks flush, her whole face glows with joy.” His voice is barely a whisper now, his eyes adoring as he looks at her and she can barely breathe again. She cannot fathom how someone can love her so, after everything. “He's fallen in love with _that_ woman and he hopes he can find the key to her heart and make the transformation permanent.”

She knows not how long she stares at him before she manages to snap out of it and drop her gaze self-consciously, taking a sip of her drink.

“Blimey,” she says eventually, staring down at her cup. “You're wasted on the Service, Harry. You should have been a bloody poet.”

The sound of his warm chuckle gives her the courage to lift her gaze to his face again, the twinkle in his eyes reassuring. “Nah,” he murmurs, looking away across the river. “My poetic talents are very limited, I assure you. I'm far better suited to living in the shadows, keeping secrets, doing dirty deeds.” His mood is shifting, turning dark again, as is so often the case at work; she can tell, and that, more than anything, lifts her spirits. She knows him and he knows her and that is so very reassuring and precious.

George is gone now, as is Nico, Adam, Zaf, Jo and all the rest. But Harry's not. He's still here. So is she. And she's promised herself to live life to its fullest. She's promised Jo. She's promised all of them to live the life that was taken from them. It's Christmas soon – a time for love, a time for family. What family does she have left, but Harry? She fancies, for a moment, that she sees them all – Jo, Adam with his arms round Fiona, Zaf and Colin – nodding at her encouragingly. “Go for it, Ruth, _”_ Adam's saying. “Make him happy. Make both of you as happy as we were.” He winks at her then kisses Fiona, Jo smiles, Zaf grins and Colin nods encouragingly. She blinks and they're gone, but the peace they brought and the love still lingers.

“Maybe,” she murmurs, reaching to rest her hand on Harry's arm, “but I'm glad I bring out the poet in you, Harry.”

He looks surprised and pleased, his eyes searching her gaze.

_I'm trying, Ruth. I'm trying with all my limitations, which you know better than most._

His words echo through her mind, something about the way he's looking at her triggering the memory. She'd been so _angry_ with him then, in so much pain, but in truth neither of them are perfect. She's just as limited as he in so many ways. Maybe, after everything, they deserve each other. Maybe if she'd given them a chance, none of this would have happened. Maybe she wouldn't have had to leave, maybe George would have been safe, maybe Zaf and Jo and Adam would have lived, maybe all this suffering is a result of her stubborn refusal to embrace and act on her love for Harry.

“Why did you join the choir?” she asks softly.

He smiles a self-deprecating smile. “Because you sing and I wanted to impress you. I can't do it all year round – there's no time – but a month at Christmas is doable and it's easy to slot back into the group and explain my absence.” He drops his gaze for a moment before adding, “After you left, I continued because it made it bearable. It's not the easiest time of year to be alone."

“I think I'd like to spend Christmas with you, Harry,” she replies, watching the pleasure infuse his features and reaching up to kiss his cheek. “I think that would make me happy.”

“Derek won't be best pleased,” he jokes, perhaps unsure of how to take her sudden display of affection.

“Derek's barking up the wrong tree. I entrusted the key to my heart to someone a million times more worthy ages ago.”

He smiles. “Lucky sod.”

“Oh, I don't know. I'm rather high maintenance, you know. I suspect he has his work cut out for him.” She smiles to hear him chuckle.

“It's only work if your heart's not in it, Ruth,” he says, his gaze adoring.

She nods, silently agreeing with him as she remembers the beginning with George. Oh, she'd come to love him eventually, but those first months had been so hard, letting go of Harry, just as these last few months have been hard letting go of George. She's still not there yet. The guilt is still strong even now as she forces herself to live her promise to Jo and the others, including herself, she supposes; after all, she's sacrificed a lot too for Queen and country.

“How about we go somewhere?” he suggests softly. “For Christmas. Let's not bother with all the decorating and cooking. We could stay in a nice B&B, explore a bit along a different river, break the routine of London for a change.”

She smiles, appreciating his efforts to pull her back from the dark chasm that's forever opening up before her. “That sounds lovely, actually.”

“Good. Leave it with me.”

She almost objects to having him choose and arrange everything without her input, but then she realises that planning a holiday with Harry might prove too much for her at present. Just thinking about it fills her heart with guilt, especially since a part of her, quite treacherously, is really quite happy that the holiday is with Harry instead of George. So she just murmurs, “Thank you,” and turns away again, gazing down at the water, searching for relief, for peace, for forgiveness.

“I'll get you a room. Your own room. I mean, I'll book two – one for you and one for me,” he says, and when she turns to look, he's adorably flustered and it makes her smile.

“I had no doubt.”

“Good. That's good. I didn't want you to think...” He doesn't finish the sentence.

She reaches for his forearm again and squeezes gently. “I know. I don't. It's just hard to let go... of the guilt, more than anything else.” She sighs and turns back to the river, taking a few more sips of her drink. He doesn't say anything, just stands beside her, still shielding her from the wind, present, here for her. She knows he understands and that brings her great comfort. “I'm not sure it'll ever go away,” she whispers. “I destroyed their lives. If they'd never met me, they'd be happy now, living their lives in sunny Cyprus... together.” Still he doesn't speak, but he moves to stand beside her, reaching for her hand and enveloping it in his, and despite the leather between their skins, she's glad of it – of the support, of the comfort.

She looks up to find his eyes on the river, but he senses her gaze and turns his head, their eyes meeting and holding, silently understanding. “How do you do it, Harry?”

“With difficulty,” he replies, giving her a small, crooked smile. “And by soldering on, continuing to stand on the wall, paying my dues, making their sacrifices count. There's not much else I _can_ do, to be honest.” He looks away again, gazing across the water, his hand still holding onto hers.

“Jo told me it's our duty to live our lives more fully... to make up for the loss of theirs. We're living for them too, she said, that way we beat the bad guys in every way that counts,” she confesses softly, watching as he turns to look at her again, a soft smile crinkling his eyes and lifting his lips.

“Is that why you joined the choir?” he asks.

“Yes. I thought I should try living like she said, in her memory. She was so full of life and hope... before.”

“As were you,” he murmurs softly, his eyes pools of sorrow when she looks at them.

She smiles gently up at him, wondering how long ago that had been true of him too. “No doubt we all were, once upon a time.”

He nods and turns away again, perhaps remembering his younger, hopeful self, and the moment it all began to change for him.

“Do you think she's right?” she asks him.

He sighs. “I don't know, Ruth,” he confesses, then turns his body towards hers. “I certainly don't think we've... forfeited the chance to live a little, love where we can, dream, and carve out a bit of happiness for ourselves, no matter what we've done. We need _something_ if we are to keep going. We need something to remind us what we're fighting for and to keep us grounded and sane.”

“And if they die too?” she asks in a whisper.

“We morn, we grieve, we soldier on.”

“What if we can't?”

“Nothing lasts forever, Ruth. Everybody dies eventually. There's a beginning, a middle, and an end to everything. All we can do is enjoy the time we have together. If we do that, at least we have no regrets.” He gazes at her adoringly before impulsively leaning down to kiss her cheek. “I must get to Whitehall,” he says.

“Yes.” She smiles. “I'll see you later.”

He nods and turns, striding away from her, her eyes following him, delighting in the sureness of his step, the strength of his stride, the way he squares his shoulders, ready to face anything. He really is a remarkably attractive man, in her eyes, and the more she gives herself permission to let go of her guilt over George and Nico, the more she finds that she loves him and is ready to finally give them a chance.


	9. Chapter 9

_Tuesday, 22 nd December 2009_

 

“What are you doing for Christmas, Grace?” Sarah-Ann asks after practice is over.

“Oh. I... er...”

“She's coming round to mine,” Harry volunteers.

“She is?!” They all look rather stunned.

“Yes. And she's not bringing any presents. Are you, Grace?” He gives her a pointed look, as if they've had this discussion many times before.

She wrinkles her nose. “Maybe one or two,” she replies, eyes twinkling at him, “for the children.”

“Children, pah!” He dismisses them with a wave of his hand. “Our youngest is fifteen! Hardly children, Grace.”

“Some alcohol then,” she says, determinedly.

“Nice,” Simon approves. “Get him some whiskey. Al never says no to whiskey.”

“But what about Ruth?” Margaret interjects, startling her, and it's only then that she realises Harry's named his fictional wife after her and she can't help the way her heart melts to hear it. “I bet she doesn't like whiskey.”

“Actually, she's rather a big fan,” Harry interjects, catching her eye.

“Well that's sorted then.”

“Yes,” she smiles, reaching for her coat and starting to pull it on.

“So does this mean you're not going away this Christmas, Al, and you'll come to the service with us? We're all dying to meet your Ruth, you know,” Jemma says gleefully.

“Ah,” Harry replies, clearly having failed to foresee this development. He sighs. “I'm afraid not. Ruth's aunt isn't well and she wants to go to the service at the hospice to be with her.”

“Oh no. I'm so sorry. And at Christmas too!”

“Yes.” He nods and smiles sadly before turning to her. “In need of a lift today, Grace?”

“Thank you,” she replies, hoping it doesn't seem strange to everyone else, how much time she's spending with Harry. Then again, it's only once or twice a week that they're with the choir, so it's not really that much time in the grand scheme of things. And besides, what are they going to think? That she's having an affair with him? It's hardly likely when Harry/Al makes a point of mentioning his wife and children often. And besides, she's only left with him a handful of times now – hardly enough to rouse suspicion, surely!

“Anyone else?” Harry asks.

Thankfully, no one else takes up his offer. Derek hasn't turned up today, for which she's really very grateful. And seeing as this is their last practice before Christmas, with any luck, she won't have to see him again until after the holidays. Hopefully by then he'll be over his jealousy, especially since Harry won't be coming back until next year.

She frowns, feeling suddenly acutely disappointed by this realisation. Choir won't be nearly as much fun without Harry – or Al, she should say.

They say their good-nights and head to the car, Harry opening and holding the door for her as she gets in.

“Everything alright?” Harry asks gently as he takes his seat beside her in the car.

“Fine,” she replies, smiling at him. He's so good at reading her shifting moods and it warms her heart that he knows her so well. “I'll just miss you, that's all,” she tells him. “Choir isn't the same without you.”

He smiles and turns his attention back to starting the engine. He doesn't say anything, but she has a feeling he might be contemplating how much he'll miss seeing her regularly on a Tuesday too and plotting a way around the problem.

When they get to her place, she doesn't hesitate before asking, “Coming in?”

He nods and kills the engine.

Once inside her flat, they take off their coats and hang them side by side, smiling at each other as they both realise how in sync are their movements. Her hands slide down the fabric of her coat as he turns to face her, his gaze searching, his right hand rising to gently tuck a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. “You're beautiful,” he murmurs, sliding the side of his index finger along her jaw and making her shiver and close her eyes at the frisson.

He leans in, but hesitates, his eyes searching hers, seeking permission. “Ruth?”

It takes her a moment to find her voice to utter a single word. “Yes.” She doesn't think she'll survive a moment longer without his lips on hers.

The corners of his lips lift infinitesimally before he completes the motion and his soft, plump lips find hers, gentle and pliable as they kiss her. The first touch takes her breath away and, with the second, a sigh escapes her that, somehow or other, turns into a moan of bliss. She feels the heat of his hands on her hips and lifts her own hands to his sides, only to find his arms in the way, his forearms hard, strong beneath the fabric of his shirt and jumper. She's seen his forearms bare only a few times, has admired them, wished, _longed_ to run her fingertips along them, feel them wrap around her waist, anchoring her to him, kiss them as they support his weight, suspended above her, and all those memories, those fantasies come flooding back and suddenly it's not enough – these soft, gentle kisses, tentative touches, his warm near-embrace.

She wants him.

All of him.

Now.

She moans again, her hands slipping over his arms to his belly and up his chest, fisting in the fabric over his pecs, her lips parting eagerly below his, her body pressing against his.

She feels him tense, hesitate, begin to pull back, trying as always to be the gentleman. Why can't he just be a regular, hot-blooded bloke and just take what he wants, like so many others she's known, she finds herself thinking fleetingly in frustration before she answers her own question – because he wouldn't be Harry then and she wouldn't love him.

Still. _Bloody self-control._

She follows him with her body as he attempts to move back, sucking his lower lips into her mouth, her left hand tightening its grip on his jumper, her right slipping behind his neck and into the curls at the nape of it, pulling him to her as she shifts her weight back, making them almost stumble into their coats and the solid wall behind her.

“Ruth,” he objects in a gravelly voice.

“More. Kiss me more,” she replies and presses her lips to his again.

He does, but it's still maddeningly chaste, he's still holding the floodgates of his passion securely closed, barred and triple bolted.

She makes a frustrated, impatient sound. “Properly,” she demands, raking her fingernails over the back of his head and making him shiver, her left hand rubbing circles over his right breast, looking for his nipple.

Her hands still, then she pulls them back, her left hand back to his forearm, her right round to caress his face, fingers trailing along his smooth, strong jaw and down the delicate skin of his throat, her eyes following their progress until she reaches his heart, gently pressing her palm over it. “I'm sorry,” she murmurs softly before lifting her gaze back to his face.

His eyes are hooded, passion smouldering in their depths as he gazes down at her, his gaze as intense as she's ever seen it. He's silent for long moments, and when eventually he does speak, she's become so lost in his gaze that she barely remembers what it is she's said.

“Never apologise for wanting me, Ruth,” he growls. “You have no idea how many years I have waited for that.”

She swallows. “But still, you're right. We... we should wait... until...” But here she tails off, unsure of how to finish the sentence.

“Yes,” he replies.

“Coffee?” she suggests.

“Whiskey, but first,” and he leans in and kisses her again, passionately.

Her toes curl, her heart-rate trebles, her breath escapes in an inarticulate moan, but just as she's losing herself in the sensation, he suddenly pulls back.

“No,” she whispers, feeling bereft and lost without him. She wasn't done with that kiss. She'll never be done with kisses like that.

He chuckles and presses his lips against her forehead, one arm wrapping around her waist, his right hand cupping her cheek and sliding into her hair. “You are wonderful, Ruth,” he confesses softly.

She sighs. “You're quite wonderful yourself, Harry,” she mumbles into his chest.


	10. Chapter 10

_Tuesday, 22 nd December 2009_

 

This time, when he takes a seat, he chooses the sofa, turning his body towards her and patting the spot beside him. She smiles, wordlessly sitting down next to him, their bodies close, but not touching.

“Cheers,” he says, lifting his glass towards her.

“Cheers,” she replies, clinking hers against his before taking a sip, her eyes on his the entire time. She can't seem to shake the spell he's cast on her, her eyes glued to him – his warm gaze, his soft lips, his sure, strong, efficient movements holding her attention, her passion burning low, deep in her belly, her want unsatisfied, her need unfulfilled.

His gaze is direct, warm and intense, the boldness of her own giving him permission, perhaps, to openly show his admiration.

She wants him, and yet, she's rather enjoying the anticipation, the gentle torment of her simmering passion, the feeling of being fully alive. It used to be like this between them all the time, back before Cotterdam when they couldn't keep their eyes off each other. It's a wonder she got any work done at all in those days and no wonder at all, really, that Mace had managed to outwit and outplay them so perfectly. It's never been like this with anyone else, not since Alan in Year 10 and she's pretty sure that that had been entirely one-sided.

 _Alan._ She hasn't thought of him in decades.

“What's Al short for?” she asks suddenly.

He smiles and takes another sip of his drink.

“Alexander? Albert? Alan?” she suggests, wondering if perhaps he's never thought about it before. “Or is it just Al?”

“Alastair,” he replies softly, his voice like molasses.

“Isn't that the Scottish version of Alexander?” she asks, frowning as she tries to retrieve the information from the recesses of her mind.

He smiles. “I've no idea, Ruth.”

“I think that's right.”

His gaze softens with fondness and he lifts his hand, fingertips reaching for her face, trailing along her jaw. “You're the most remarkable woman I have ever know,” he whispers, sending a shiver running down her spine at his gentle touch, her eyes closing, a small whimper escaping her throat as his fingertips move lower, down her neck to her chest and the top of her blouse – the single most erotic touch she has ever known. “So remarkably responsive,” he murmurs in wonder, his fingers continuing their journey, over the fabric of her top, round the side of her breast and under, causing her breath to hitch and her lips to part with a gasp. She closes her mouth, catching her lower lip between her teeth, fighting the urge to throw herself at him.

He withdraws his hand, but it's only when she hears him swallow more whiskey that she dares to open her eyes again. She knows her face betrays her arousal as does his own, his dilated pupils and smouldering gaze, his flushed skin, and the tension in his jaw muscles.

“Do you enjoy torturing us both?” she asks him, taking a quick swig of her drink.

He chuckles. “Hardly, but I can't seem to help myself. You're far too enticing by far. Irresistible, in fact.”

She hums, tipping the rest of her whiskey down her throat and setting her glass aside before turning to him once more. “In that case,” she says, “I'm going to need a cuddle.” Then, before he can object, she moves closer, wedging one arm behind his lower back to encircle his middle as she tucks her feet beside her on the sofa and leans against him, resting her head on his shoulder with sigh of deep satisfaction.

He shifts a little, getting comfortable, but he doesn't pull back, his right arm wrapping around her shoulders, his hand running up and down her upper arm as he presses his lips against her hair and breathes in deeply.

They lie like this in silence, adjusting to the feel of each other, their bodies stilling, relaxing, becoming perfectly attuned. She's no longer feeling aroused, but content, peaceful, and perfectly safe in his arms. After a while, she notices that their breathing has somehow become synchronised and she has a feeling that perhaps their heart-rates have too. She remembers sitting on her father's lap as a small child, the same peace, the same security enveloping her heart.

“I love you,” he murmurs, the rumble of his voice through his chest to her ear, the contentment, the peace, making her smile softly. Of course, he loves her. He's her Harry and she's known that for years.

“I know,” she replies, eyes closed as she moves her head, rubbing it against his shoulder. She feels as contented as a cat in this moment.

“I hope it's not... too soon... to be saying that. I just needed to... tell you. Last time I was ready...” He tails off.

“Yesterday would have been,” she murmurs in reply, “but today... it's just right. Your timing's perfect.”

He presses his lips against her hair, then takes a quick gulp of his drink, draining the glass and reaching over to place it on the side-table, making her whimper in protest. “Sorry,” he whispers as he settles back again, his now free, left hand rubbing her upper arm. “I needed my hand free.”

She sighs happily as he continues to rub her arm, then her shoulder, his fingers slipping into her hair, massaging her scalp and eliciting a moan of pleasure. “You know that I...” She hesitates, unable to say the words yet, her thoughts spinning like they're caught in a whirlpool, gravitating to its centre where an image of George she doesn't want to look at, doesn't want to think about while lying in Harry's arms, grapples for her attention as she struggles to free herself from its grasp and hold onto the splash of heaven she's found here, in his arms.

“I know,” he replies, probably sensing the sudden tension in her. His fingers slide through her hair again, more firmly this time, drawing her towards him, his lips pressing against her hairline, her forehead, as he leans towards her, her heart-rate rising, her breath heavier, matching his as he draws her closer, his lips pressing kisses against her skin, her eyebrow, her eyelid. “I know,” he murmurs again, leaning into her, his left palm suddenly, unexpectedly cupping her breast.

She moans in pleasure, all thoughts of George banished, and gasps his name. “Harry.”

He hums, his lips finding hers, kissing her softly, repeatedly, then sensually licking her lips, his tongue seductively brushing against hers when she parts them, causing another moan to leave her throat, blending with his heavy breathing and the wet sounds of their kisses.

“Ruth,” he murmurs reverently, his voice a low, aroused rumble.

They kiss more deeply, his hand kneading her breast, her own hands busy exploring his body, the hard planes of his chest, the softer feel of his belly, the rough scrape of his stubble and the silky softness of his hair.

This feels so _good. He_ feels so good.

“Harry,” she murmurs as his lips leave hers to explore more skin.

His teeth scrape her jaw and she shudders, her hips jerking forward involuntarily, desperately seeking some friction. His left hand has already left her breast and is now kneading her bum, and without much thought, she grasps it and redirects it, placing it firmly between her legs, whispering again, “Harry.”

Sadly, rather than encouraging him, this seems to bring him to his senses, and it's with unbearable frustration that she feels him slowly withdraw, the diminishing ardour of his kiss and the gentling of his touch making her want to scream with frustration. Wordlessly, she tries to convey her displeasure, but he's already made his decision and, short of begging him for release, there is not much she can do about it. She's not yet that confident around him, however, nor is she willing to risk his rejection, however gently and kindly it's delivered, or nobly it is meant.

She knows him. Harry's a gentleman and he prides himself on his self-control, his self-restraint, his self-denial even. He's clearly unilaterally decided that tonight is not the night for them. Twice now he's stopped them and, despite the sexual frustration she's experiencing right now, she knows she cannot sway him. She could try to seduce him, break him and take her pleasure from him against his better judgement, but she doesn't wish to do that. After all this time, when they come together, she wants it to be a joint decision, something they both want, not something only one of them is fully on board with. And, who knows, perhaps he's even right to make them wait. She's certainly not yet over what happened when she came back to Britain and she's definitely not ready to commit herself to them with all her heart. Her heart's still shattered, its pieces scattered widely between here, a warehouse in East London, a cold grave, and a town 2000 miles from here where a boy lives, his life forever altered by her choices and actions.

“I should go,” he says, voice gravelly still.

She's buried her face in the crook of his shoulder, her hands fisting in his jumper as she fights to keep the tears at bay. She doesn't quite understand where they're coming from. Is it frustration? Disappointment? Is it loss? Is it George, or Harry?

“Ruth?”

She takes a deep breath, but there's no masking the hitch in it, the almost sob.

“What is it?” His touch is gentle, warm hands rubbing her back. “Did I hurt you?”

She shakes her head, breathing in deeply, pushing her emotions down, struggling for control. “It's nothing. I'm fine.”

She pulls out of his arms, sits up, and quickly wipes her cheeks with her hands.

“I'm not... rejecting you, Ruth,” he says softly, and when she lifts her eyes to his, his gaze is full of concern. “I'm just...”

“Making sure I'm ready,” she finished for him, giving him a brief smile. “I understand, Harry. I... I appreciate it... how careful you are, how gentle. I feel safe with you. I know I can count on you and that is a precious thing, even if I have to suffer through another sleepless night of frustration.” She offers him another smile, warmer this time, her gaze softened by love and gentle teasing.

He smiles crookedly and drops his gaze briefly, she thinks in embarrassment, or perhaps its guilt. “Sorry about that. I got a little carried away.”

“Never apologise for wanting me, Harry,” she repeats his words from earlier back to him. “You have no idea how many years I've waited for that.”

He chuckles and lifts warm eyes to hers. “You could have fooled me.”

She wrinkles her nose in displeasure. She doesn't like to be reminded of her own stupidity in denying them back then, when things between them had been so much simpler. “Just because I was scared doesn't mean I didn't lie awake at night wishing you in bed with me.”

“I wish I'd known that,” he says, voice low.

She smiles. “And what would you have done about it if you had?”

“Seduced you.”

“You tried,” she reminds him. “At Havensworth. I wasn't having any of it, remember?”

He smiles a slow, confident, sexy smile. “That was nothing. Had I known, I'd have turned up at your door one night and convinced you to let me in. No Diaspora, no CCTV, just us... in a room together. There would have been nowhere to run, Ruth, except straight into my arms.”

She swallows, desperately wishing suddenly that what he's described had actually happened, or given that they cannot change the past, that he would shut up and do it now. She's already completely under his spell and loving every minute of it.

“Why didn't you?” she asks once she's found her voice again. “You knew I liked you.”

“I knew no such thing,” he replies, sadly.

“I'd gone out with you. I'd wanted to go out again.”

“You said maybe. You needed time to think about it,” he counters.

“Only because I was so overwhelmed by my feelings. I wasn't used to not being able to think straight. It scared me and I didn't know what you wanted. I thought maybe it was just a fling.”

“And how was I to know that, Ruth, if you wouldn't tell me?” His gaze is soft and sad now, full of regret for the opportunities that were lost.

“I don't know.” She sighs.

“I was your boss. I couldn't risk pressing you with unwanted advances. I had to respect your decision. I tried to talk to you, but you were forever cutting me off and changing the subject.”

“I know.”

They fall silent.

“ _God_ , I was so stupid!” she blurts out suddenly in frustration.

He chuckles and holds her gaze, his hazel eyes warm and full of affection. “I should get going,” he says again. “It's getting late.”

She sighs. “Yes,” she concedes. If there's to be no sex tonight, they might as well try to get some sleep.

They get up and carry the glasses back into the kitchen before she follows him to the door, watching him pull on his coat and gloves, admiring his body, her thoughts straying to the next time they're alone together at Christmas. He might have booked two rooms at the inn for the occasion, but she has every intention of using only one of them.

“What?” he asks when he looks up, noticing her scrutiny.

“Just wondering if you've got me a Christmas present.”

“I have,” he replies with a soft smile.

“Good. I have one for you too.” She doesn't tell him that her present is herself, wrapped in a beautiful dress and some flimsy, lacy underwear that she will be shopping for tomorrow. She hasn't been ready for physical intimacy between them until tonight and she has a lot to arrange before Thursday, though thankfully the IUD she had fitted in Cyprus makes for one less thing to worry about at such short notice.

They smile at each other, hesitating in the doorway, both of them clearly reluctant to part.

“Good night, Ruth,” he murmurs eventually, leaning down for a soft kiss, his hand cupping the back of her head as her own grab hold of his lapels when he comes back for more.

They kiss hungrily, passion rising again as he pulls her roughly against him with his hand on her bottom, his lips trailing kisses along her jaw to her ear, teeth biting the lobe, tongue plunging in and making her cry out with need.

“You'll be the death of me,” he growls and abruptly pulls back, pressing a hot, wet kiss against her mouth and releasing her, turning and slipping out her front door, eyes blazing with desire as he hungrily takes her in once more before pulling the door closed behind him.

For a moment she's stunned, frozen in place by his abrupt departure, but then she takes a step forward and bangs her fists against the wood in frustration. “Damn you, Harry Pearce. Damn your bloody self-control and your fucking self-denial.”

She rests her forehead and palms against the door, willing him to come back, knowing it is futile, wishing it was his shoulder she was leaning against, that his arms were securely wrapped around her. She takes a deep breath and sighs, bolting the door and turning away from it, crossing her flat to her bedroom, then the bathroom where she runs a bath and slips into the hot water and the promise of an orgasm or several to relieve the unbearable tension.

Next time it'll be _his_ fingers that deliver it, she promises herself. She's going to have sex with Harry on Christmas Eve if it's the last thing she does on this earth.


	11. Chapter 11

_Thursday, 24 th December 2009_

 

The drive down is easy and relaxing, once they leave the outskirts of London, the car warm, music gentle, the atmosphere full of a hopeful kind of expectation. They don't say much, but she knows that she's not the only one experiencing the excitement, the budding joy of being together, their usual reticence and caution falling away as the miles stretch behind them.

With each passing day since Harry turned up at her choir, it's become easier to live in the present, to let go of the past, to forgive herself for surviving, to accept that making the most of the time she has left is the only way forward and a good way to pay her respects. After all, if she'd been the one to go first, she would have wanted exactly that for Jo, for Zaf, for George and Nico. They were good people and good people want the best for those they love and care for. And the further she gets from Thames House today, the easier it is to think only of Harry, of her hopes and dreams, of them finally coming together.

The B&B is delightfully warm and rustic, and their rooms right next to each other, under the eves of the house, the skylight in each room infusing them with natural light and giving them a spacious, yet cosy feel. Her room is smaller than Harry's, but thought he tries to insist she take the bigger of the two, she doesn't let him.

“I'm not giving up my room, Harry. It's just like the one I had when I was little, after my parents had the loft converted, and besides, you'll only keep bumping your head against the ceiling. You're much taller than I.”

And it's true. He's been eyeing the sloping ceiling warily ever since they stepped into what is to be her bedroom for the night.

Or so Harry thinks.

Little does he know that, if her plans work out tonight, they'll both be sleeping in the double bed in his room anyway, so there's little point in arguing now.

“Well,” he eventually concedes, “if you're sure?”

“I'm sure. Now, come on. Let's explore Lewes.”

He smiles and nods, turning to leave the room and making his way down the narrow stairs to the second floor with her close behind him. Here the building isn't as narrow and they can make their way downstairs side by side, hands brushing against each other a couple of times before she grasps his with her own, making them both smile like fools until they reach the bottom for the staircase and the front desk.

“Off to explore?” Mary, the owner, asks them.

“Yes,” she replies. “We were hoping to find lunch. We're famished.”

“That shouldn't be too hard. Just walk down to the centre. There are several places open today.”

She smiles and thanks her, turning to Harry who's busy pulling on his leather gloves by the front door. “Shall we?” he asks, voice low, gaze warm and inviting.

“Yes,” she replies, following his example and pulling on her own gloves and her hat.

Lewes is a picturesque little town and they enjoy their short walk down to the river and over the bridge, taking in the sights around them. It's a bright day, but bitterly cold, the wind gusts strong and icy.

“Look good to you?” Harry asks, nodding at cosy looking place that seems to be open.

“Looks lovely and warm,” she replies with a shiver, smiling when he takes her hand to cross the deserted road, his face a picture of concern for her. “I'm fine, Harry,” she says quickly as she steps through the door he pulls open for her, her heart melting at his solicitousness, her mind unsure of what to do with it. It's never been easy for her to accept a man's open admiration and attention, but she's determined to do her best to be gracious about it today. She _wants_ Harry's attention and love, and she doesn't want to risk hurting him by doing or saying the wrong thing and making him pull back. She knows how that feels.

The conversation flows easily and naturally as they eat a hearty, winter soup, followed by coffee and a slice of cake they share. It's rather amazing and magical, being here, like this, with Harry.

Once satisfied and re-energised, Harry settles the bill and they make their way back out into the chill of Christmas Eve afternoon and take the turn under the archway on their left that their server had kindly pointed out to them when they'd asked directions to a path by the river. They pass the brewery and make it round to the walkway running along the banks of the Ouse, ambling along in silence, her hand resting in the crook of Harry's elbow, face protected from the cold by her hat and scarf and the bulk of his broad chest beside her.

Harry's not wearing a hat, but then she's never seen him sporting one. How he doesn't freeze with such short, thinning hair, when she would turn into an icicle despite her much longer, thicker hair where she to venture out in this cold hatless, she'll never know.

They pass a large Tesco and some playing fields on their right before taking the footbridge across the river, pausing to gaze down at the slow moving water. “A different river,” she says, remembering the moment he'd made the suggestion to go away for Christmas. _Dear Harry_. Always true to his word.

“As promised,” he replies, smiling down at her.

There's magic here, in this moment, with the river flowing below their feet, cleansing them. _This_ is their time; she can feel it. Time to let go of their pasts, time to embrace the future. She thinks of the present she bought for him yesterday on a whim, hoping he'll understand and embrace it and that it'll bring them closer still to each other and what they both want so desperately.

“Shall we?” he asks, perhaps feeling cold, exposed like this, with the winter wind whipping along the water. Or maybe, he's just concerned that _she's_ cold. You can never be quite sure with Harry.

She smiles and nods, allowing him to turn them and follow the path down the other side of the bridge. It's steep and she'd suddenly extra grateful for his support and that it's not cold enough to be icy. She imagines this path can be quite treacherous in frosty weather.

From here, they can no longer see the river as they make their way back towards the centre, passing houses and the public, open air pool that's teeming with life in the summer. Briefly she entertains the notion of coming back here then, but quickly realises that Harry wouldn't be caught dead in a public, open pool whatever the season. She smiles fondly at the realisation, looking up at his beloved face, her smile broadening at his frown and pursed lips as he gazes at the notice about the pool with clear disapproval.

She rubs her hand affectionately up and down his bicep and presses a quick kiss against his coat.

“What?” he asks, frowning down at her.

“Nothing,” she replies with a smile.

They continue straight onto St John's Hill, then Abinger Place, her heart full and at peace, trusting that Harry will not lead them astray. He seems to know exactly where he is, has probably spent some time pouring over the map until he's memorised this place, or else, he was already familiar with it.

“Alright to see the castle?” he asks, proving her entirely right in her assumption. She nods and they follow the road round until they reach the castle gate, walking below it.

“This is lovely,” she says, gazing up at it. “Let's take a picture.”

They do, then move on, the cold necessitating a stop for a drink at the Brewers' Arms, which she thinks might be what Harry was aiming for all along. It's good to sit down again, the warmth of the room doing wonders to thaw her cold nose and cheeks, and the tips of his ears that are much redder than usual.

“Why don't you wear a hat?” she asks him when he returns with a glass of whiskey for each of them.

He gives her a look, but ignores the question.

“Your ears must be freezing.” She leans over, lifting her left hand to gently touch his right ear, which is, indeed, extremely cold. She hesitates for just a moment before she begins to softly rub it between her fingertips, then cups her hand around it, feeling his skin begin to warm, her heart pounding with a mixture of emotions.

His gaze has softened as he watches her, tilting his head slightly towards her touch, then reaching for her hand and bringing it round to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against her palm. “Because I have you to warm them up again,” he murmurs, voice a low rumble.

He lowers their hands to the table, linking their fingers together as they gaze into each other's eyes, utterly lost to the world around them. She's never done this before. She's never loved another man enough to get lost in his eyes like this, and Harry... He's a spook, a powerful man back in London, and she suspects, he's always been aware of how dangerous his affection might be for her were it to be noticed.

“This is perfect,” she murmurs, desperate to convey how much she's enjoying being like this with him.

“ _You're_ perfect,” he replies, lifting her fingers to his lips again.

They must paint quite a picture, sitting together like this in the corner, eyes only for each other. He's come up with the perfect plan for them, leaving London behind for Christmas, feeling they can relax and draw closer here, away from the memories of the Grid and MI5, away from the prying eyes of spies and politicians, away from the loss and grief of their everyday existence. There are just locals in the pub here, enjoying the holiday and the chance to catch up with friends, barely sparing a glance for them – two utter strangers. It's just the two of them, cocooned from the world and finally ready to be together.

Or so she hopes.

Most fervently.

“It's nice here,” she says. “I like this town.”

He hums, his eyes never leaving hers. “I like the company.”

She drops her gaze self-consciously at his continued compliments, clearing her throat before lifting her eyes to his once more.  _Be brave._ “The company is excellent,” she agrees.

By the time they finish their drinks and head back outside, it's almost dark and Harry holds her that much closer. His eyes scan the road ahead, expression intent, gaze alert, looking for danger. She hurries along beside him as he leads them down High Street to the centre of town and their B&B.

He'd told her he's made reservations for dinner at seven, at which point she'd requested that they make a stop at their rooms for a bit first, wanting to relax a little, have a warm shower, and get changed before venturing out again.

It's when she's in her room, unpacking her overnight bag and gathering what she needs for the shower, that she notices the door in the wall behind which Harry's room is located. Curious, she walks over to it and unlocks it, opening it cautiously to find a second door, presumably one in Harry's wall with a similar lock on his side. She smiles, thinking how handy this will come in later, before closing and locking the door once more and going to have her shower.

She's a bit nervous, truth be told about the way she looks tonight, given her intentions for this evening. The dress is a warm, soft, wool one, in shades of brown and tan, with a cowl neck, long sleeves, hugging her every curve as it tapers down to her knees. It looks good, if she's honest, with her new chocolate brown boots and, despite her nerves, she can't wait to see his reaction to it.

She's smiling to herself as she eyes her bum with approval in the full length mirror when she hears the knock on her door. Quickly, she grabs her coat and slips it on, winding her scarf around her neck as she calls, “Come in,” and buttons her coat, grabbing her hat, gloves, and purse from the bed before turning to face the door.

Harry's standing in the doorway, his eyes quickly darting over her, clearly noticing that she's changed out of her trousers, his gaze lingering on her calves for a moment before it moves back up to meet hers. “Ready?” he asks, his gaze unfathomable.

“Yes,” she replies, crossing the room towards him.

He holds the door open for her as she slips past, her nose detecting the fresh scent of his cologne, her eyes taking in his freshly shaved jaw and the sight of his fresh, blue shirt and the soft skin of his neck through his open collar. She wants to kiss that spot, right there, wants to see if it's as soft as it looks to be, but that'll have to wait until later.

Once more, they descend the stairs and make their way outside where she tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow again and follows his sure steps as he leads them to their destination.

It's quite a busy place, but it's warm and they're shown to a nice table for two, tucked away in the corner, that affords them more privacy than most, as she's sure Harry requested. Their server – who's introduced himself as Phil – holds her chair out for her while Harry helps her remove her coat and she stuffs her hat, gloves and scarf into one sleeve with a quiet thank you, the heat of Harry's gaze as he takes in her dress making the colour rise to her cheeks. She takes the seat and reaches for her napkin, her eyes lowered until their waiter's left and Harry's taken the seat across the table from her.

“You look stunning, Ruth,” he murmurs, leaning towards her.

She smiles self-consciously, lifting her gaze to him, taking in his broad shoulders, open collar, his large, strong hands resting on the table. He looks quite delectable himself and she feels desire pool in her belly as attraction arches between them.

“Thank you,” she says. “You look very handsome yourself, Harry.”

He smiles softly, then hesitates as if debating with himself if he should say something more.

“What?” she asks, a little worried by his hesitation.

He smiles and shakes his head, but she just gives him her best Ruth-stare, waiting for him to succumb and tell her. Not that he always does, of course. He's a seasoned spy, but even seasoned spies are prone to weakness when confronted by the woman they love, and she doesn't have long to wait before he gives a small chuckle and starts speaking.

“I was just thinking that I promised myself I'd be more careful this time,” he explains in a voice infused with humour, “that I wouldn't talk about the Grand Tour, I wouldn't... share too much and send you running for the hills again.” He looks adorably bashful, but she can also see the concern in the depths of his eyes, behind the twinkle, that tells her that, however much he's trying to hide behind humour, it really does worry him that she could pull away again at any moment.

“You couldn't scare me away if you tried, Harry,” she replies gently, reaching to cover his hand as it rests on the table. “I don't make the same mistakes twice and I happen to like the idea of the Grand Tour with you to keep me company.”

He smiles and nods, turning his hand under hers to grasp it and give it a grateful squeeze, his eyes swimming with emotion.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Phil asks, causing them both to start and lift their eyes, but Harry doesn't relinquish his grip on her hand when she tries to pull back in surprise.

“Wine?” he asks her, his hazel eyes warm and tender.

She nods. “Do you have White Burgundy?” she asks, turning to look at Phil.

“We do.”

“Excellent. We'll share a bottle.”

“Very good,” he says, smiling. “Our specials today include the roast duck with orange and ginger, and the garlic brown sugar glazed salmon. I'll leave you to look at the menu.” And with that, he moves away, leaving them to their own devices once more.

“I rather like the sound of the salmon,” she says, withdrawing her hand from his, her eyes on her menu as she reaches for it and opens it, perusing its contents.

“I rather like your choice of wine,” he counters. His voice is velvety and low, his eyes smouldering when she looks up at him.

Her cheeks flush again, her heart-rate rising. “It wasn't my choice, as I recall,” she replies, her voice barely a whisper.

“It is this time.”

“Yes.” She smiles. “It's time to fix the mistakes of the past, don't you think?”

He never gets to answer her question as Phil reappears with the wine, ready to take their order.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Blimey! 5000 words. I didn't expect that. Still, as the penultimate chapter, I hope you will forgive the indulgence. Also, smut ahoy! This one is M rated. Thanks again for all your encouraging reviews. I love to hear what you think and like about each chapter. Enjoy. S.C.

_Thursday, 24th December 2009_

 

After dinner, they head back to their B&B, the night too cold to brave, even for them. She's feeling wonderfully relaxed and mellow. The initial intensity of their emotions and the attraction arching between them had waned as they'd filled their bellies with food and wine, and their hearts with warm conversation. She's never enjoyed herself more than she has on this night, has never felt more content, more happy.

“Good night, Ruth,” he murmurs as they stop in front of her door, reaching down to softly kiss her cheek. He shows no sign of wanting to push his luck and take this to the next level, which is rather disappointing if she's honest, though not entirely unexpected. She imagines that he's enjoyed today just as much as she has, perhaps more so after so many years of dreaming and longing, and he's probably loath to risk spoiling it now. _Poor Harry._ She has made him so very insecure around her.

She hesitates, her mind spinning as she does a quick calculation before she nods and says, “Good night, Harry. I've had a wonderful time today. Thank you.”

He smiles. “Me too, Ruth.”

They stand for long moments, staring at each other until she makes the decision to move them along. She has plans for tonight and standing in her doorway all evening isn't helping them happen.

Quickly, she reaches up, palms pressing against his chest as she lifts herself onto her toes and kisses his soft, plump lips. “See you in the morning,” she says and turns, opening her door and stepping into her room, the disappointment in his eyes boosting her confidence as she smiles at him and closes the door behind her. On some level, he _does_ want more tonight.

Once inside, she quickly discards her bag, hat, coat and scarf, grabs her toiletry bag and ventures back into the hall and the toilet on the other side of Harry's room, using the loo and brushing her teeth before she makes her way back to her room, softly knocking on Harry's door as she passes and saying, “Loo's free, Harry.”

“Thanks,” she hears him reply and returns quickly to her room, ready to set the rest of her plan in motion.

She grabs her hairbrush and fixes her hair, removes her boots and stockings, and reapplies a little make up, all the while listening out for Harry. She hears the toilet flush and moves to the connecting door between their rooms, opening it and pressing her ear to his door, awaiting his return.

She doesn't have to wait long. The moment she hears the other door close, she takes a deep breath and knocks, impatient for him to answer.

“Who is it?” he says in a teasing voice.

“The tooth-fairy,” she replies sarcastically. “Who d'you think?!”

“Well, I had to check,” he counters as he swings the door open, eyes twinkling with mischief and pleasure. “It could have been anyone come to take advantage and I didn't bring any of my handguns with me.”

“Well, I'm not _anyone_ , though I can't promise not to take advantage when you look so enticingly dishevelled. Did you undo an extra button?”

The expression on his face is priceless.

“Anyway, I'm here because I need to give you your Christmas present,” she adds, holding the box out to him.

“It's not Christmas yet, Ruth.”

“I know, but I need to give it to you tonight. Open it.”

He hesitates, but takes it from her hand, murmuring, “I have yours in my bag.”

“Later,” she tells him. “You first. Open the box.”

He lifts his eyes to hers, amused at her impatient tone. “Alright, Ruth,” he says. “Keep your hair on.”

“Sorry. I don't mean to be pushy.” She blushes self-consciously as he turns his attention to the ribbon.

“It's not very heavy,” he comments, pulling the ribbon off and taking a step over to the bed to let it fall onto the covers. Then he lifts the lid and looks inside, frowning in confusion.

“It's just a box,” he says, sounding puzzled. “I think you might have forgotten to put something in it, Ruth.” And now he's teasing as he lifts his eyes to hers, gaze full of fond affection.

“It's not just _any_ box, Harry,” she counters. “It's a fancy gift box with a golden lid, and besides, that's only half the present. This is the other half,” and she steps forward and hands him the bag of a hundred assorted buttons she's been hiding behind her back.

“Buttons?” He sounds really perplexed now and she can't help smiling. “I must admit to having a weakness for the chocolate variety, but these...” He tails off, her warm giggle making him lifts his eyes to look at her.

“I think I'd better explain.”

“That would help.”

“You remember in training when they explain about the boxes and how, before you go out in the field-”

“You put everything about yourself in a box,” he finishes for her, though he still looks puzzled.

“Right.” She hesitates, feeling a little nervous now it comes down to it. “It's a silly idea.”

He smiles, gaze softening. He turns and sits on the bed, patting the spot beside him. “Tell me your idea, Ruth,” he says gently. “I am sure it's very far from being silly.”

She takes a deep breath and nods, taking a seat beside him, though not too close. Not yet. “Well, I thought, why not do it backwards? Why not, instead of putting the good things in a box, why not put the things that get in the way? Of us. All the things we do and think and feel that make it impossible for us to move forward. Then I thought we could use the buttons as symbols of the things we put in the box, see? Like this.”

She takes the bag of buttons and opens it, spilling them onto the bed between them and choosing a bright pink one that catches her eye. “This is my guilt,” she says, glancing up at him and then away again, feeling rather silly, “my guilt that I survived when the others didn't.”

He smiles, placing the box upon the bed behind the buttons and watching as she drops the button in it. “This is a wonderful idea, Ruth,” he says, voice warm and full of wonder.

“D'you think so?” She looks up at him, searching his gaze to see if he means it.

“I do.” He smiles and turns to the buttons on the bed, choosing a midnight blue one. “My guilt that I couldn't... save them, save _you_ , from Mace, from Mani, from any of it,” he says softly, taking a moment to gather himself before dropping the button into the box with her own. “I already feel lighter,” he comments, causing her to smile broadly and impulsively reach over to kiss his cheek.

Enthusiastically now, she chooses another button. “My fear that I'll lose you too,” she says solemnly.

“My fear that you'll run from me.”

The two buttons hit the bottom of the box in quick succession. It's a rather satisfying sound and a very satisfying feeling.

She spies a big, black button and picks it up. “Your self-denial,” she says and holds it out to him on her open palm. When he looks at her, she adds, “It's not mine to put in the box, Harry.”

He smiles and nods, picking it up and toying with it for a moment. “I need this for work,” he comments.

“But not in intimate relationship. This box is only for the bits we don't need wedged between us. You can keep it for work.”

He nods, but still he hesitates, searching her gaze. “Is this an intimate relationship, Ruth?” he asks, voice rather low.

She swallows. “I'd like it to be,” she tells him, honestly. “Wouldn't you?”

In answer, he drops the button in the box. He picks up another one. “Your tendency to run,” he says and holds it out to her.

She nods, takes it and resolutely places it in the box. It feels good to make a conscious decision not to run from him again.

“My fear that I'm not good enough, that you'll tire of me and move on.” She gives him a self-deprecating smile. “Irrational, I know.”

“Yes,” he agrees, “but no more than my own, probably.” He chooses another button and drops it in the box with hers.

“What was that?” she asks.

He hesitates, then confesses softly, “My fear that I'm not good enough for you, I'm too old, that you'll leave me again at the first opportunity.”

She reaches for his hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “Irrational,” she agrees, smiling softly into his eyes.

He clears his throat and turns back to the buttons, using his finger to spread them out, searching, for what, she doesn't know, perhaps just needing a moment.

“My tendency to close my heart in self-defence instead of opening up to you,” she says and chooses a bright red button.

“My hesitation and holding back where you are concerned.”

“My anger with Mace, politics, fate, the universe – you name it – for my exile.”

“Same,” he says and adds another button to the box.

“My anger at myself for not taking a chance on us before.” She places a button in his hand. “And your anger at me for the same reason.”

He hesitates, but nods and lets the button fall into the box.

She thinks for a moment, then chooses a dark brown button. “My guilt that I moved on when you remained so faithful,” she whispers, feeling it surge through her as she admits it out loud and tears spring to her eyes.

“Oh Ruth,” he murmurs, noticing the sheen of tears. “You really mustn't feel guilty about that. I told you, you did the right thing. You needed to move on.”

“So did you,” she counters, eyes swimming with tears, “but you didn't.”

“No,” he admits, “but that was different. Our circumstances were different. Everything about my life stayed the same except for the gaping, big hole, slap-bang in the middle of it. Work was the same, home, Scarlet, everything. It was just one piece that went missing. And like a jigsaw, only the missing piece would fit to complete the puzzle.” He pauses to smile at her, reaching his hand up to gently wipe away her tears. “You had just the one piece of the entire puzzle, Ruth. Everything about your life was different. To wait a lifetime to find the missing piece is doable. To wait a lifetime to find a million missing pieces is not. You needed to build a new life, a new jigsaw. It was the right thing to do. It was the _only_ thing to do, Ruth.”

“Oh Harry,” she sighs, overcome by emotion. “I don't deserve you.”

“That one's going in the box, Ruth,” he says, picking up a button and placing it in her palm. “We can't have you believing a thing like that.”

She laughs a watery laugh and drops both buttons in the box. She wipes her cheeks and takes a few deep breaths to get her emotions under control again.

“Enough buttons for now?” he asks.

She nods. “I have to give you your second present.”

“ _Two_ presents? Now, Ruth, that's-”

“You'll like this one, Harry.”

“I have no doubt, but it's not fair if-”

“The box was really a present for both of us. It doesn't count.” And with that, she begins gathering the buttons back in their bag while he watches, then carefully replaces the lid on the box and carries it over to the chest of drawers along with the bag of buttons that he takes from her hand.

“I just need to nip to the loo,” she informs him, slipping quickly back through to her room and the bathroom down the hall, needing to wash her face and do something about her make up.

She eyes her reflection critically. “You can do this,” she tells herself and promptly leaves the bathroom behind. She walks down the hall to her room, slips inside and sets aside her purse, smoothing down her dress nervously before crossing to the connecting door and peering into Harry's room.

He's facing her, what looks like a small box clutched in his hand, gaze warm and hopeful. “Alright?” he asks, taking a step towards her.

“Fine.” She smiles and moves closer. “Better than fine,” she adds, losing herself in his eyes again.

“Happy Christmas, Ruth,” he murmurs, holding out the long, thin box-shaped gift for her to take.

She smiles shyly, taking it carefully from his hand, her fingers gliding over the red ribbon. “Thank you,” she murmurs.

“You haven't opened it yet. You might hate it.”

“Just the fact that it's a gift from you makes me love it already.” She blushes at such a revelation, but she has spoken the truth, and when she glances up to see his reaction, she has to fight a powerful urge to fling herself at him, kiss him, hold him, never let him go. Instead, she forces herself to slip the ribbon from the present and remove the gold wrapping.

“Here,” he says, stretching out his hand to take them from her.

It's a box from a jeweller's – one too large for a ring, thankfully – but all the same, she can't help the way her heart starts pounding. Gingerly, she lifts the lid, her eyes falling on a simple, silver chain and pendant. No, not a pendant. It looks like a locket, perfectly round and beautifully decorated with a Victorian filigree pattern.

“Oh,” she breathes, overcome by emotion.

“Open it,” he prompts, taking the box from her hands this time as she lifts the chain out of it.

For a moment, she's scared he's put a picture in it, unsure how she feels about that. But before she can get too worked up about it, she opens it and her heart almost stops at the utter perfection of it.

It's not a picture, but a quote, “Some journeys take us far from home. Some adventures lead us to our destiny.”

“Narnia,” she murmurs, fingers tracing over the writing. Of all the quotes he could have chosen there is none more perfect than this for this time, this moment in her life, in theirs.

“I wasn't sure you'd recognise it,” he murmurs, smiling happily down at her. “Do you like it?”

In answer, she lets her heart speak, lifting her face to his and stepping into him, her left hand fisting around the chain against his chest, her right grasping the back of his neck as she reaches up to kiss him. This is no gentle kiss good night. This is no mere snog either. This is _everything_. Everything in her heart, everything in her mind and soul and her body. It's love and desire and passion all rolled into one. It's transcendent and resplendent, joy and bliss and everything in between.

His arms have slipped around her, crushing her against him, his lips as eager as hers, the growl escaping his throat melting all her insides. All thought has left her head, all her carefully constructed plans laid to waste below the onslaught of their passion. He doesn't hesitate any more. He doesn't deny them either. Those qualities of his are safely tucked away in the box. There is nothing but love and desire between them.

His hands glide down her back to her buttocks, squeezing them, pressing his growing arousal against her and making her moan with longing. His lips leave hers, journeying round her jaw to her ear, taking the lobe in his teeth, sucking it into his mouth, making her whimper.

“Tell me to stop,” he pants, tongue tracing her ear.

“You _dare_ stop, Harry Pearce,” she warns, tightening her grip on him, “and I'll break your neck.”

He chuckles, murmuring, “I didn't know you knew how.”

“I'm sure there's a book somewhere,” she replies, making him chuckle more and taking advantage of his momentary distraction to turn her head and begin kissing his jaw and down his throat, tasting the soft skin she'd dreamt of earlier as he hums with satisfaction.

“This is my favourite spot,” she confesses softly, tracing the hollow of his throat with her tongue and making him groan with pleasure. “In fact, I'm laying claim to it. It's mine now.”

He makes a strangled kind of sound in his throat and, when he speaks, his voice is raw with emotion. “It's yours, Ruth. All of it. All of _me_ if you'll have me.”

“Oh, I will, Harry. I'll have you. In bed. Now.” And with that, she pulls out of his arms, pulling him by the hand as she crosses to the foot of the bed, where she releases him,lifting up her dress a little so she can crawl along it, not bothering to look if he's following. Before she's got very far, however, strong hands wrap around her ankles and yank her knees from under her, making her shriek in surprise as she falls flat onto the covers.

“Harry!” she protests, but the rest of her words of indignation die on her lips as his hands move firmly up her calves to the back of her thighs and her buttocks.

“This dress,” he growls, gliding his hands down her thighs and up again, bunching up the material, easing it slowly up her body. “I have wanted to do this all night.” She whimpers as the bed dips under his weight when he plants his knees firmly on either side of her, his hands pushing her dress higher to expose her bum. “Gorgeous,” he breathes and next thing she knows, his lips have joined his hands on her buttocks, kissing, teeth scraping, sucking her skin hard enough to leave a mark and making her squirm under him.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks in a gravelly voice against her skin, then promptly runs his tongue along it, rendering her response an inarticulate mewl. “White lace,” he murmurs, fingers reaching between her legs to feather along her underwear. “My favourite colour.”

She wants to tease him about that, how that can be true for a seasoned spy like him – surely black would be more appropriate – but all thoughts and words leave her head when he presses his face into her arse and she feels his tongue slide along between her legs, teasing her and driving her mad with excitement.

“Harry,” she complains, his efforts not nearly enough to quench her need yet.

“Roll over,” he directs, lifting his head and her right leg over the top of him, gazing down at her with a smile of true joy. “You're exquisite,” he murmurs as he leans down once more, planing a soft kiss against her pubic bone before slipping his fingers under the waistband of her knickers. “Scoot up,” he says, easing the material down as she complies, and settling himself between her legs, blowing cold air over her and making her gasp, only to cover her folds with his mouth and make her whimper.

Her hands fist in the covers as her eyes close in bliss, a slow mantra of “Harry” falling from her lips. He's so good at this, so skilled at finding what brings her pleasure that, when he slips two, thick fingers inside her, she comes undone then and there, crying out in abandon as the waves of her pleasure crash over her, her mind blissfully blank for the first time in years.

When she floats back down to earth, she finds him sitting on the bed, leaning on his left arm, his right hand on her knee, his thumb lazily drawing patterns against her skin, his lips smiling with a smug kind of satisfaction.

“Alright?” he asks, smiling more broadly as, in answer, she stretches, arms above her head, arching her back as she turns towards him, a big yawn escaping her, followed by a sigh of deep contentment.

“Never better,” she replies, sitting up and moving towards him.

He watches her, eyes hungry again, his chest beginning to rise and fall more quickly.

“In fact,” she murmurs, straddling his thighs, sitting in his lap, and stretching her arms over his shoulders, “I rather think, I've hit the jackpot. _You_ , Harry Pearce, are the best lover I've ever had, and we haven't even got started.”

He grins, his hands rubbing up and down her sides as he tries to look modest and fails quite spectacularly. “Well,” he says eventually, “I try.”

“That's good,” she replies, threading her fingers through his hair and pressing a quick kiss against his gorgeous lips. “Because now, I want you inside me.”

His response is instantaneous as his hands push her dress up and over her head, discard her bra, and he flips her onto her back beside him, the urgency of his movements, making her revel in his passion for her. Why in heaven's name had he held back all this time?! If only he'd treated her like this, she would never have been able to resist him.

“Ruth,” he murmurs between kisses hard enough to bruise, his hands exploring every inch of her, but he's still wearing all his clothes and she cannot reach any part of him, save his lower back which she's taken no time at all in exposing.

“Get undressed, Harry,” she directs him breathlessly, watching with delight as he complies, releasing her and sitting up to remove his shirt over his head in his impatience, revealing his deliciously broad chest and soft belly, his strong arms, and soon his solid thighs, when he stands and kicks off his trousers.

“Better?” he asks as he slips back into bed beside her.

“Much. You're a gorgeous man and I like to look at you.”

He laughs, but looks pleased none the less as he reaches for her, drawing her closer again. “You are so beautiful, Ruth,” he says softly, the fingertips of his right hand, tracing her collar bone down to her breast. “I cannot believe my luck that you should want-”

She silences him with a firm kiss. “I want you. I love you, Harry.” And it is suddenly the easiest thing to say in the world. He looks stunned, overcome by emotion, but the last thing they need now is for him to burst into tears, so she takes matters into her own hands, quite literally.

“You forgot to take your trunks off,” she points out, tugging on the material. “I want to see what you're hiding in there.” And with that, she cups him, running her hand up and down his length and eliciting a groan from him.

“Ruth,” he breathes, falling away from her onto his back, and she takes this as permission to have her way with him.

She turns on her side and sits up, tugging hard on his underwear until he lifts his hips and she can pull them down to his knees, allowing him to kick them off himself as her eyes are drawn to his cock, standing proud and rigid with his want of her. He's quite beautiful and he's rather large, and she can't help wanting to taste him. She leans down and runs her tongue up his length, breathing in the musky scent of his arousal, her mouth opening and taking the tip of him inside as her right hand wraps around his length, lifting him away from his belly, moving with her mouth to give him pleasure, which, by the sounds emanating from his throat, he's experiencing in buckets.

“Ruth,” he says in a strangled voice, his hands trying to pull her head away from him. “I'm so close. Please.”

She understands. He wants to be inside her. She'd rather like him to be inside her too, so she pulls back, smiling at him before tracing kisses all along his tummy and chest until she reaches his lips where he welcomes her with a thorough snog that makes her toes curl and her insides melt for him.

He rolls them over, pushing himself between her legs, lifting his head to look at her.

“Yes,” she says, reading the question in his eyes. “Now, Harry.”

They both groan as he slips into her, his head dropping to her left shoulder as her inner walls ripple around him, adjusting to the feel of him nestled inside her, thrilled to have him there at long last, tears of joy sliding down the sides of her face as she hugs him to her.

“Harry,” she breathes, all her love and satisfaction infusing her voice.

“You have no idea,” he begins, lifting his head to look at her, tears shining in his eyes.

“Yes, I do. It's always been you, I've wanted here.” She lifts her hand to cup his cheek, delighting in the way he tilts his head towards her touch.

“Then why-” he tries again, but she doesn't let him finish.

“They're in the box – our regrets. We're here now. That's what matters.”

He nods and turns his head, kissing the palm of her hand. “Yes. We're here now.” And with that, he begins to move above her.

Afterwards, they lie in each others arms, sweaty and replete, their hands softly stroking each other.

“Harry?” she murmurs softly, her voice sounding blissful even to her ears.

“Yes?” His voice is low and relaxed as is his whole body.

“Do I still have a ribbon in my hair?”

“A ribbon?” He frowns, turning in her arms and reaching behind her head as she tilts her head forward. “Hmmm,” he hums. “So you do.” She feels his hands struggle with it for a moment. “Hang on. It's a bit tangled.” He fiddles some more. “No, wait. I've got it.” And with that, he brings the shiny, gold ribbon round to show it to her. “Here,” he says.

“Thank you, but you can keep it. It was your other Christmas present.”

“The ribbon?”

“No. Me. You need a ribbon on a Christmas present.”

He smiles and pulls her against him, pressing a soft kiss against her forehead. “Thank you,” he murmurs with affection. “It was a wonderful Christmas present.”

She hums. “A present that keeps on giving,” she says, delighting in his warm chuckle.

“I'm glad to hear that.”

“Where's my present?” she asks suddenly, some moments later.

“I don't know. Did you put it down somewhere?”

“I don't remember. I think perhaps I dropped it in all the excitement of having you go down on me like that.”

He chuckles again and, ever the gentleman, gets up to look for it, despite her inarticulate protests when he withdraws his warm, naked body from her side.

“Here it is,” he says after a moment, and when she opens her eyes to look, he's leaning over the bed, the locket dangling from his hand.

“I want to put it on,” she replies, stretching luxuriously before she sits up and turns her back to him. She feels the mattress dip as he kneels on the bed behind her, then the locket appears in front of her as he lowers it over her chest and closes the clasp, planting a soft kiss against the chain as it rests on her neck.

She turns to look at him. “What do you think?”

“Perfect,” he replies.

“The locket or me?” she teases, watching the warm smile spread across his lips.

“Both. It looks perfect on you.”

“It was a beautiful gift,” she tells him, scooting closer to him and softly kissing his lips. “I love it.”

“So I gathered,” he jokes, mischief in his eyes. It's so nice to see this side of him. He's always far too serious at work and it's wonderful to see him relaxed and happy.

“How long did it take you to find it?” she asks.

“Weeks,” he replies. “I didn't know what to get you for the longest time. I wanted something personal but not too...”

“Intimate?” she suggests.

He smiles. “Yes. Intimate. When I started looking, this here,” his hand moves between them, “seemed a fool's fantasy. But last week, after you said you wanted to spend Christmas with me, I gave myself licence to hope and I ended up in a jewellery shop, searching for something. In fact, I went to several, and then I saw a locket similar to this that I thought you'd like, but the quote was all wrong.”

“What did it say?”

“Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

She smiles. “Wuthering Heights. A lovely sentiment, but...”

“Totally wrong for us, at this moment in time.”

She nods her agreement. “This one's so perfect.”

He smiles and leans over to press a soft kiss against her lips. “You look gorgeous sitting like that, wearing nothing but a necklace. If I were a younger man, I would not hesitate to-”

“Wear me out,” she suggests, eyes twinkling at him. “Good job, you're a mature man then, as I need my beauty sleep if I'm going to be up for sex again, first thing in the morning.”

He chuckles and kisses her again, before they slip under the covers.

“Why are you pulling your trunks on?” she asks, as she snuggles under the duvet waiting for him.

“Well, I thought it might be more...” he tails off, apparently not finding the right word.

“I like to feel your naked body against mine. It's comforting and safe.”

“Safe?” he queries, abandoning his trunks and slipping under the covers beside her.

“Yes. Except when it's arousing.”

He chuckles again and pulls her into his arms, switching off the light and plunging them into darkness, save for the star light filtering through the skylight in the ceiling.

“Just so you know,” she murmurs sleepily after a moment, “I'm not a morning person, but I don't object to being woken to soft kisses and gentle touches, particularly when they're followed by an orgasm.”

He chuckles again and draws her closer still. “I love you, Ruth Evershed,” he says, pressing a gentle kiss against her cheek.

“And I love _you,_ Harry Pearce.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And here we are at the end (unless I manage to put together an epilogue by Friday - no promises, mind). Thank you all for taking this journey with me and for your continued support. Cheers, S.C.

_Saturday, 26 th December 2009_

 

It's been a wonderful break from reality and part of her is loath to leave this place behind, but needs must and, much as she would like to, they can't live their lives away from the Grid forever. Not yet, at any rate, though perhaps one day, when Harry's had enough of politics, intrigue, and betrayal, and he's ready to settle down to a more sedate pace of life... Maybe then she can have her elegant, simple life back, with a man she loves this dearly.

“Alright?” he asks, glancing over at her before returning his gaze to the road.

She sighs. “Fine, just...”

“Reluctant to return to reality?”

She smiles, turning her head to look at him. Such a wonderful, remarkable man. Her heart fairly sings with happiness. “Yes,” she says simply.

“We'll do this again, Ruth. I promise.”

She lifts her hand to gently stroke his cheek. “You're wonderful, d'you know that?”

He glances at her again, smiling as he turns his eyes back to the road. “I try.”

They continue on in silence for a bit, then she says, “Will you be at choir on Tuesday?”

He hesitates. “No. I think it's best if I stick to my normal... behaviour. It would be unusual if I did and it might draw attention to how close we've become. I know how much you love to sing. I wouldn't want to deprive you of the pleasure.”

She smiles softly at him. “I think I'm going to have to invent a boyfriend. For Grace,” she adds, when he turns to look at her. “I don't want to pretend to be depressed and reserved any more, and besides, I dread having Derek try to flirt with me again.”

He chuckles. “Poor Derek. Destined for disappointment.”

“He's hopeless, Harry. He needs to take a course or something on the proper way to seduce a woman.”

“Well, if you like, I could...”

“Don't you dare!” She slaps his arm playfully as his laughter fills the car, warming her heart to hear it. He chuckles sometimes, but he laughs so rarely that it's a wonderful thing when it happens.

“I don't want to go back to mine tonight,” she tells him, making a sudden decision. “Can I stay at yours?”

“Do you even have to ask? You're always welcome in my home, Ruth,” he replies, eyes shining with pleasure.

“Well, I didn't want to presume. I'll need to grab a few things first.”

“That's fine. We'll stop by yours first.”

She smiles, feeling a lot happier now she knows she doesn't need to part from him. She wonders what his home looks like now, wonders if his little dog, Scarlet, is still with him.

“Do you have pets, Harry?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “Scarlet was getting on and I ended up giving her to Wesley Carter. He told me she'd passed away when I last saw him, a few months ago now.”

She reaches over to squeeze his thigh. “I'm sorry.”

“It's alright. With everything that's been going on lately, I'm glad she had more stability in her life at the end. I wasn't home enough for her and she always adored Wes. They... It was good for both of them after...” He tails off and clears his throat before he continues. “About your cats... I'm sorry, Ruth. I had every intention of honouring my promise to adopt them, but the day you left I got word that Catherine was in trouble. She was in Lebanon and it took me weeks to find her, sort everything out, and bring her home safely, and in the meantime-”

“It's alright, Harry,” she reassures him quickly, giving his thigh another squeeze. “It was a silly thought to begin with. I didn't want to leave and it felt comforting, somehow, to think my cats could be with you when I had so _stupidly_ let the opportunity slip through my fingers like that.”

“I would have liked to have them with me.”

She turns to look at him, surprised but pleased to hear him say that. Perhaps that's a present for next Christmas – a puppy and a kitten to live with them and keep them both company. If things continue as well as they have been between them, she doesn't see herself keeping her flat for very much longer. They've lost enough time as it is and she no longer wants to live alone after Cyprus. She rather got used to company and it feels far too lonely to come home to an empty flat at the end of a long day. Far better to come home with Harry, make dinner together, share a glass of whiskey as they unwind from the trials of the day. There wouldn't even need to be any conversation. Just being together would be enough, touching, holding each other.

“What are you thinking that makes you look like that?”

“Like what?” she asks, frowning at him.

“Blissful.”

She smiles. “You, actually. Us. Coming home together after a long day and cuddling on the sofa with a glass of whiskey each, just being there for each other.”

“I like the sound of that,” he murmurs.

“Mmmm,” she hums. “Me too. We're not there yet, but soon. Hopefully.”

“Hopefully,” he agrees, coming off the motorway and turning the car towards home. Her home this time, where she will quickly pop in to pick up more clothes, maybe a couple of days' worth so she doesn't have to go home tomorrow either. Then they can spend Sunday together, part of it on the Grid as she's sure Harry will want to check in and get caught up on some paperwork – it wouldn't be a bad idea for her to catch up on some of that either – but the rest pottering around Harry's house perhaps, taking a walk, perhaps cooking some dinner together. Then they can sleep in Harry's bed and wake up together, have breakfast, get ready for work together. She might even let Harry's driver give her a lift in that morning. That'll prove to Harry beyond a shadow of a doubt that she's not planning to run from him again.

She smiles and turns to look at him again, eyes softening with affection. “I love you,” she says because it's true and because it's easy now to say it.

He smiles and glances at her once more. “Hoping for a repeat performance of this morning?” he teases.

“Always,” she replies, earning her a warm chuckle from him. “Do you have any food in the house?”

“Some. Why do you ask?”

“I'm hungry. I'm wondering whether it's better to cook at mine and eat there before we head over to your place.”

He smiles. “Either way suits me. Let's see what you have in and play it by ear.”

“Sounds good,” she agrees, turning back to look out the window. He's so reasonable. She always believed he'd be a difficult person to live with, but that doesn't seem to be the case. So far he's been relaxed and happy to go with the flow, like George, only better.

 _Poor George._ She really wishes she'd never met him, but she's done blaming herself for the actions of Mani, McCall, and Hillier. Still, it's hard not to let the memories get her down, especially when she finds herself feeling so happy. She's always felt guilty about that – so much suffering in the world, why does _she_ get to be happy?

“I love you too,” Harry says, drawing her thoughts back to the present. She smiles wanly, allowing him to take her hand in his when he reaches for it. He brings it to his lips, not saying anything. She knows he can tell when she begins to feel melancholy and she can't even begin to express how grateful to him she is that he doesn't try to cheer her up or make her smile or do any of those things that most people think necessary. He just lets her be, but he joins her there, offering himself to her in a thousand silent ways, content to just be there for her if she needs him.

She feels tears spring to her eyes and roll down her cheeks, a mixture of grief and gratitude churning inside her. He squeezes her hand, then lets it go, needing to change gears now that they're nearing her flat and there are more roundabouts, crossroads and traffic-lights to negotiate.

“We're here,” he says eventually. Turning off the engine, her uneven breathing loud now, in the stillness. He reaches his hand up to wipe away a tear before murmuring softly, “Come on, Ruth. Let's get you inside. You'll be more comfortable there.”

She nods, wiping at her cheeks, attempting to get her emotions under control again. The cold air cools her tears and, by the time they get inside, she's done crying.

“Tea?” he suggests, kindly.

“I'll make it.”

“You'll supervise me,” he counters. “I need to learn where the tea things are kept.”

“You already know that, Harry,” she points out.

“Then just sit and keep me company.”

She does, taking a seat at the kitchen table and watching him as he moves around her kitchen with confidence, like he's always belonged there. It's actually quite an erotic thing, she realises, to watch her man do such a domestic task like making her some tea.

“You're turning me on,” she tells him, watching with satisfaction as he turns in surprise to look at her.

“By making tea?” he sounds completely flummoxed.

“You're taking care of me and you look very sexy in that jumper, not to mention your gorgeous arse, and that pout when you're concentrating.”

He shakes his head in bemusement before returning to the kettle, lifting it and pouring boiling water into their waiting mugs, then going over to the fridge for the milk.

“At least life is never dull with you in it, Ruth,” he says, placing a steaming mug in front of her and taking a seat across the table from her.

“I doubt your life is ever dull, Harry. That's part of what you enjoy about it – the Grid, I mean, MI-5.”

He tilts his head forward to concede the point. “Are you going to drag me back to your bed?”

“Not a chance, I'm famished, and besides, I'd rather not have to get up again after.”

He smiles, clearly pleased. “That makes two of us. The days of making love on the carpet are long behind me.”

“I've never understood the point of that,” she confesses. “Unless, there's a power-cut, I suppose, and the only warm place in the house is in front of the fire.”

He chuckles, eyes softening with fondness. “Ever the practical one, eh Ruth?”

“I'm an analyst. I have to be. You're the romantic.”

“We compliment each other then.”

“Yes.” She smiles, gazing at him over the rim of her cup. “Anyway, enough of that. Time to cook dinner. Are you helping?”

“If you like, though I'd be equally happy to sit here and find out if you working in the kitchen turns me on like it does you.”

She swats his arm and demands, “Up, you lazy so-and-so,” which earns her a laugh and a warm embrace as he steps forward and draws her into his arms, his lips pressing against her forehead as she sighs and relaxes into his embrace.

“And to think that just a few days ago I wouldn't have dared to do this,” he murmurs, reaching down to kiss her lips.

She hums, enjoying the feel of them against hers, their plumpness, their softness, the way they convey exactly what he's feeling.

“No,” she agrees when he pulls back. “But then, you're a master seducer. You took your time, but I think you knew exactly what you were doing.”

He grins, looking pleased. “I haven't always got the timing right with you, Ruth, but I try. I'm glad it paid off in the end.”

“So am I,” she agrees, gazing into his eyes for long moments before recollecting herself. “Food, Harry. Now. I'm famished.”

“Right,” he says, switching gears effortlessly. “Let's see what you have in the fridge.”

 


End file.
